Song of the Seraphim Book One Fantasia
by Orpheus2
Summary: Ever wonder what would happen if Parn was replaced by a quiet, even-tempered, and generally sarcastic dark elf hero? If not, he's here anyway. PS; I don't own Record of the Lodoss War or any characters but Trent, so don't sue me. Please? Complete
1. Default Chapter

Eons before man, there was a golden age, the Age of Gods. This age, when it ended, ended violently. Falaris, the supreme god of Darkness, led an army of one thousand ancient dragons and gods against the massed host of Falis, the supreme god of light. It is said that in the millennia of conflict, the very oceans boiled, the skies fell, and the earth wept. God after god and dragon after dragon fell, until only two were left; Marfa, the goddess of creation, and Kardis, the goddess of destruction. Theirs was the last battle. In the end, they had splintered the land, forging a new continent. And in this act of both creation and destruction, the life forces of these ancient deities flickered and died.  
  
Now, in our age, this land that was baptized by the blood of the divine has come to be known as Lodoss... "The Accursed Land."  
Chapter One A Blazing Departure  
  
In the far northeast of the Continent Lodoss stands the great temple of Marfa, on White Dragon Mountain. Though she had supposedly died to save the rest of Alecrast, her worshipers remained. Her altar was set far in the west and north, in the mountains with Bramd, the ice dragon, oldest of the five remaining Ancient Dragons.  
  
The altar could be reached by a shallow incline of thirty steps carved in the gleaming white marble that defined the temple's construction. At the top of the altar, an older woman raised her head from her prayers to look down at the man, er dwarf before her. Roughly four feet tall, he looked to weigh around two hundred pounds despite his lack of height. Stocky and muscular, his tanned face was framed by short white hair and an equally trimmed white beard. Dressed in gray and dull green, a huge backpack and double-blade battleaxe were his only equipment.  
  
Neese, priestess of Marfa, swallowed nervously. "You're truly going?"  
  
Ghim nodded. "Yes. I swear to find her and bring her back."  
  
She hung her head. "You needn't go...we both know she's..."  
  
"Neese!" Ghim frowned at her. "No one should give up hope of another's life. Especially not your own daughter." He grinned. "Besides, I'm still good enough to drag back a wayward daughter or two." He burst into hearty laughter as he turned to leave the temple. "Relax."  
  
This incidentally did little to ease the high priestess's worries. "Ghim..."  
  
Deeper in the temple, even past the shrine, Neese stood before the mirror of truth, her head bowed. "Marfa...please give Ghim your divine protection. Help him find my daughter." Images danced in her mind of a young fourteen-year-old girl, slender and willowy, pale-skinned and black- haired. A gigantic, pale gray dragon lowered its head next to her. She gratefully accepted his support. "Thank you Bramd."  
  
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One of the only constants that all agree on is that darkness and light can never exist without creating the other. So it is that there are creatures of light and creatures of dark in all worlds. Goblins were among the creatures of Lodoss that were of the dark. Still, other creatures always exist.  
  
Deep in the Alanian forests, if you listened very carefully, you could hear flute music twisting and weaving among the other sounds of the forest. It would have been nearly impossible to find the source of the strange, haunting music just by listening, but if you did, you would find a curious sight.  
  
Sitting in the branches of a nearby oak tree was one of the rarer of the races of Lodoss, a dark elf. Elves in of themselves are extraordinarily rare on Lodoss, at least as far as humans know. Most live within lands closed by the gates in the mystical Forest of No Return; the only ones regularly seen outside of there are dark elves, usually in the service of those who are...less than pleasant.  
  
Trent, as he was called, was not one of them. For all that he was hardly the nicest of people imaginable. He looked a bit strange for an elf, as he stood almost five foot ten inches; at least half a head taller than your average elf. Aside from that however, he was a pretty typical dark elf male; long, shocking white hair, skin deeply tanned, long pointed ears, ethereally handsome features.  
  
He idly looked up from his piping as snarls and panting became apparent elsewhere. Sighing, he slipped the pipe under the long, black coat he wore, and leapt towards the noises, seeming to fade in and out of sight as is the wont of elves.  
  
--------  
  
We will now rewind to a different time and place, though not very much so. Perhaps a mile away, a young woman had been bathing in one of the forest springs. She was a human female, about sixteen years old. Middling height and slender, she had long, black hair and fairly pale skin. No, we won't indulge your disgusting fantasies in what she looked like naked; the not- quite omniscient author only knows that she was attractive, but cannot provide any details. Sorry.  
  
Anyway, said young woman realized at one point that she was being leered at by goblins, who most likely would have taken liberties she would have disapproved of had she not grabbed her dress, leapt out of the pool, and started running like hell. (As this is Lodoss and not Nerima, she won't be manifesting large, wooden mallets to punish all perverts.)  
  
The problem with goblins is that while they're not particularly smart, like most animals who travel in packs, they have enough instinct for tactics that they will generally chase their intended prey either into a dead end or into the arms of their brethren, so to speak. It's not really hard to believe; wolves and such do it all the time, despite a human's bigger cranium.  
  
In this case, she was chased into another group of goblins. She was sensible enough to run, but she also lacked any kind of fighting abilities, meaning that all she could really do was cower, and pray they wouldn't kill her.  
  
That of course, is when Trent chose to arrive. After all, the hero always conveniently shows up in the nick of time to save obscure damsels in distress. It's a literary must.  
  
In all honesty, she didn't actually see him for quite a while. All she realized was that she wasn't being murdered, eaten, and/or raped, and looked up, to see thirty or so goblins, a good seven or eight of which were in multiple chunks while the rest looked around wildly, trying to figure out who was perform the vivisection.  
  
Trent sighed, banishing his concealment spell. "God damn goblins; if these people would just hurry up and fight on their own it wouldn't BE such a problem." (Gee, a nearby village that Trent seems to despise, and now another one comes up. You don't suppose there's a connection?)  
  
"That was rather well done. Though I thought that goblins only came out after sunset."  
  
Trent turned to take a good look at the newcomer. Priest of Falis, he noted; the gold-trimmed white silk robes and the monk's bowl-cut were a dead give-away. The boy...no, young man couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen at most; his face still managed to retain some actual innocence.  
  
He shrugged. Normally priests of the god of light had problems with Dark elves, but if he wasn't going to try and blast him, Trent wouldn't try anything himself. "Normally yes. But when certain pig-headed villagers remove any reason for them to be cautious, they tend to ignore trifles like the time of day."  
  
It was at this point that said obscure damsel in distress recognized the new-comer. "Etoh!"  
  
--------  
  
As the girl had scampered off upon reaching the walls of the village, Etoh and Trent were left alone in the hut as Etoh began heating up some kind of herbal tea he'd grown fond of in his monastery. "So, you're a priest of Valis, eh?"  
  
Etoh nodded. "Hardly a priest. I'm still only a novice, though I have learned quite a bit." He set a second mug across the table. "How long have those goblins been a problem?"  
  
Trent sighed. "Define problem. You're what, sixteen?" Etoh nodded curiously. Trent sighed again. "Then you've had to deal with them before you went to your monastery. If you mean when did they start coming out in the day in force, well that's been going on for about the past year and a half." He nodded appreciatively at the tea. Some kid of chamomile blend. "These villages don't realize that they're not going to go away. If they ever put their minds to it, those goblins could wipe out this entire village pretty easily. The only reason they haven't so far is because they don't really have any good reason to do so."  
  
Etoh shrugged. "They're farmers, not soldiers or mercenaries. They're purpose as they see it is to farm, not fight."  
  
Trent shook his head. "It won't work, and the sad part is that I know a lot of them realize it. The goblins will keep fighting, keep pillaging, until eventually they decide they want the whole village. Then, bye-bye Zaxom."  
  
Etoh gave him an appraising look. "I'm somewhat curious as to what you're doing here. You're a dark elf, aren't you?"  
  
Trent nodded. "Mm-hmm. Incidentally, you're taking this rather well. Dark elves aren't exactly welcomed with open arms in most places."  
  
Etoh laughed. "I've been taught for quite some time not to arbitrarily judge people. Besides, you were trying to save the mayor's daughter earlier; not exactly the mark of evil."  
  
What was quickly moving towards a friendly conversation was interrupted by the abrupt banging open of the door, courtesy of a certain irritable Angry Mob(TM). "All right, where's the elf?!"  
  
Trent ignored them, taking another sip of the tea. "As you can see, not everyone has your 'live and let live' attitude in regards to my people."  
  
One of them tried to grab him by his coat, only to find himself facing the business end of a single-edged tanto dagger. "Y-you...damn it, why did you kill those goblins?!"  
  
Trent quirked an eyebrow as he withdrew the blade. "Am I to understand that your preference would have been my letting her get raped and devoured? If so, you can always drag her back to their den."  
  
A slightly more moderate member of the Angry Mob(TM) yelled from the back, "you didn't have to kill them! They run off if you scare them enough! Now they'll be angry and try to get revenge for their fallen comrades! What do you think will happen to this village?!"  
  
"Honestly? I think it will remain the same. Those things know a dark elf killed their brethren. You'll probably continue to be raided and such, but for that, they'll most likely start coming the forest to try and find my scent."  
  
The one who'd narrowly avoided being stabbed snorted disdainfully. "Hmph! Fucking dark elves; I don't know why we're bothering with the traitorous, murdering bastards."  
  
Trent didn't rise to the taunt. "I've killed before, but I can't seem to recall having anything to betray."  
  
He laughed. "Good, little elf! That's all your kind is good for anyway; talking and dying."  
  
Laughter fell short as Trent exploded into action, grabbing him by the throat and hurling him headfirst out of the house. Incidentally through a hole that didn't exist in the three inch oak wood. "That...was uncalled for. Especially from a barbaric, idiotic human who most likely laughed his ass off when my family was burned alive in their home by Alanian soldiers."  
  
"That's enough," came a new voice.  
  
"The mayor!"  
  
The mayor (as no one bothered to give him a name beyond that), proved to be a tall, muscular man who looked to be in his early to mid forties, sporting black hair and a thick, bushy mustache. "I for one would like to thank you."  
  
"What?!" the mob exclaimed as one. "Mr. Mayor, weren't you the one who told us not to harm the goblins?!"  
  
Another piped up from the back. "Now they'll want revenge for their man, and we'll all pay for it!"  
  
"What happens then, huh?! What happens to us?!"  
  
The mayor managed to insert himself in between Trent and those who had almost instantly forgotten his little stunt with the other villager currently hanging out of the wall. "That's enough! This is a matter for the entire village to decide, not something to be fought over on a whim."  
  
Trent's eyes narrowed in disgust. More talking. More democratic decisions that would get squat done. More debates that ended with everyone deciding that just dealing with things as yet was the best course of action. More idiots making sure that more people would slowly die because of their fear and unwillingness to fight.  
  
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Deeper in the forest, one could find large cliffs and sheer-walled chunks of light tan stone. Inside of one, wind, rain, and other storms had carved out a large warren. Within, the large horde of wild goblins slept, caroused, fought, and got themselves drunk on plundered ale and mead.  
  
All save one. Taller and more humanoid in appearance than the others, he stood commandingly on a raised boulder, watching over his minions. Unlike the rags of the others, he wore almost-fitting black garments, a cutlass thrust into his broad leather belt. He snarled to himself. Twelve dead, all over one meddling outsider. He seemed to remember it being described as an elf of some kind, but he felt a lot more anger towards that human village the woman had come from.  
  
Had he been a human of high intelligence or an elf, he might have wondered why he seemed to have no trouble desiring to murder and slaughter the humans when none of them had particularly done anything to him.  
  
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Not everyone had chosen to come to Etoh's house and try to start a witch hunt against the dark elf. One of the houses on the outskirts in particular was host to some almost normal happenings. A tall, slender man was quietly and sedately preparing a meal. Tall and slender, he wore his blond hair in a short, almost monk-like cut while he wore a plain brown robe tied with a similar brown sash.  
  
"Got a cup of that for me?" came a rough, deep voice.  
  
Slayn turned to the doorway, smiling slightly at the grey-haired dwarf standing there.  
  
In minutes, the two were seated around the rough-hewn wooden table sharing mugs of some strange tea. The house when you took a good look, was noticeably less normal than original impressions would give. The walls were lined in bookcases and other shelves, all crammed full of old leather- bound tomes and grimoires, a small astrolabe, and all other manner of paraphernalia that most self-respecting wizards find absolutely necessary.  
  
Slayn shook his head at his friend as he sat down. "I have no intention of going out on some trip with you. Swords and lances are far too heavy for me." He looked longingly over all of his books. "And my magic is not yet what it could be. I still have many books to read."  
  
Ghim snorted in good-natured irritation. "Huh. Spend all your time in here and those powers of yours will molder away."  
  
Slayn chuckled at that. The two turned curiously at a knock on the door. "A veritable flood of customers. That's a first for me."  
  
The mayor cracked the door enough to slip his head around, then entered the rest of the way. "Master Slayn, I need your advice for the village..."  
  
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Not everything in the forest was dark and gloomy. At one point, a large river of babbling, clear water ran through a clearing near some cliffs. Trees remained, but they were far enough away from the rest of the water that it stayed bright and well-lit.  
  
Standing on one of the stepping stones was a sight far rarer than a dark elf such as Trent Shadowlight. Standing perhaps five foot five, she looked almost frail from her slender, willowy build. Pale skinned and with pale, platinum blond hair, she was startlingly beautiful. She wore a short tunic and dress of leaf green silk, a lighter shade than her brilliant, emerald green eyes. Over her tunic she had a kind of half-breastplate that stopped above her stomach, the massive shoulder guards holding a cape the same dark, lapis-lazuli blue as her armor.  
  
She smiled as she leapt from the rock towards the short waterfall, landing on a new stepping stone. Cupping her hands, she caught some of the water and splashed it across her face, laughing and smiling.  
  
Unfortunately, it didn't last. Her eyes abruptly hardened, banishing the image of frailty. She leapt through the air, landing in the branches of a nearby oak. She frowned as a large horde of goblin warriors marched beneath her. Goblins in force in the daylight?  
  
--------  
  
Trent silently padded down the stairs of Etoh's house. He was a dark elf, and more than that he was trained as an assassin and ranger; silence came to him naturally. He slipped into one of the chairs, staring into the fire.  
  
He was nearly one hundred and thirty years old; young for an elf, but adult none-the-less. If he'd been a farmer or a carpenter or anything else that had a normal life expectancy, he could have well lived to be six hundred before he died. The price of that, at least when he lived in a world dominated by short-lived humans, was that he had far more memories, far more skeletons in his proverbial closet.  
  
He groaned quietly to himself as he rubbed his forehead. Not again. The memories, always the same, returned. The memory of over ten years ago, of his father leaving for a quest that he'd never understood. The tall, straight-backed and proud dark elf warrior striding away for adventure. Never returning. Then, less than a year later, the young hunter that Trent had grown to be coming home to find his family dead; mother and two sisters, burned alive in what was left of their cottage.  
  
Anger can be a terrible thing. The loss, the pain; in some it leads to Hyuri, the spirit of Rage and Berserkers. In others it can kill, destroying a person's will to live from the inside. For Trent, it was something else entirely. He first learned of and feared his own terrible, frigid anger; the cold hatred and rage that sent him on destruction's path with mind and cunning intact.  
  
He'd spent just enough time to bury his family's ashes; elves cremated their dead and buried the ash to enrich the natural world they loved, then left the bones in trees. He'd then taken to the towns of Alania, listening and waiting. It hadn't taken long for him to find and overhear the drunken soldiers laughing and congratulating themselves on getting rid of the elven scum. There had been six of them; the first three were found dead in their beds, their hearts removed. The next two were crucified and left in disreputable alleys, their hearts gone as well. The last, the commanding officer who had ordered it, was never found. Trent had knocked him unconscious one night and dragged him deep into the forests, leaving him chained in a gully. Wolves had devoured him alive within two nights.  
  
The faces of the dead blurred around him. He regretted his actions to a small extent; not the killing, but his actions. He wasn't the kind to delude himself into thinking that they deserved something, that they didn't really mean it. He had no regrets about killing them, he only regretted that he'd left them as gristly warnings. The last troubled him most of all; he'd let the man die a torturous death. That he had lowered himself to prefer suffering over simple payment was the only thing that he honestly regretted.  
  
Trent continued to stare into the fire, the images of the villagers coming to mind, their petty little complaints, their fears. Fear he could understand to a degree. They weren't soldiers, but they were a lot stronger than they thought themselves to be. They could have dealt with the goblins, but chose not to. So he was all that was left.  
  
He slipped a slender four foot long bundle of black cloth from over his right shoulder and unrolled it. As an assassin and ranger, he understood just how important weaponry was, and had long since mastered concealing a large number of deadly little surprises around him. These however, were more than just weapons, they were his legacy, a gift from his mother and father.  
  
He reverently lifted the three weapons in their black, lacquered wood sheathes. The longest, a katana, was a weapon his father had owned. The others, a wakizashi short sword and a tanto dagger, had belonged to his mother.  
  
Slowly, almost ritualistically, he began to arm himself; katana across his back, short sword at his waist, tanto across the small of his back. Black leather bracers/gloves were added to each forearm, six scalple-like throwing blades concealed and sheathed in each one. Four more of the scalpels were sheathed in each upper-arm of his long coat, four star-shaped throwing knives in pockets set near the kidney area of his jacket.  
  
The last item he removed from his bag was an eight-inch long cord of leather; three thongs braided into a single strand, one black, one silver, the last forest green.  
  
He grinned tightly as he tied his hair back. Elves normally wore their hair loose and flowing, with forehead ornaments or bands. Tying back one's hair like this meant one of two things; you were either a raving deviant (true in this case, but not the main reason), or that you were going out of your way to distance yourself from the normally joyous, carefree, and most importantly life-respecting elves.  
  
Checking the catches on his knife sheahes, he stood and invoked shadow- walking, one of his more unorthodox abilities. Fading into pure darkness, he slipped through the shadows towards a large enclave of goblins.  
  
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Deeper in the forest, two goblins gazed across the clearing in front of their caves. Their only warning was a slight whisper of cloth, followed by a hissing sound of steel against flesh. The two fell almost instantly, their bodies in multiple pieces.  
  
Trent sheathed his katana, his hand creeping towards his knife. In the closer confines of the cave, he'd be better off with the shortest, lightest blade. Keeping to the shadows, he frowned as he entered. It appeared deserted; old armor and the rancid leavings of a hasty meal were all that greeted him. Letting his spell taper off, he slipped outside.  
  
His eyes widened as he left the cave to enter a world of blazing wind and light. It was as though he had stepped into the eye of a cyclone. His hand darted into his jacket for his spikes as he spotted the cause of the storm; a slip of a girl, but a high elf.  
  
Deed ignored his species for the most part. He was a dark elf true, and thus his kind was generally a servant of Falaris and Kardis. Still, he was fighting goblins, and thus more likely to be neutral. "You might want to try that village." With that, she faded out of sight, back into the greenery.  
  
Trent frowned as she faded away. The village? His eyes widened in horror. "Zaxom!"  
  
--------  
  
Said village was at the moment besieged by goblins. Ruthless shock attacks sprung up as small groups of goblins climbed the houses only to drop through the relatively unprotected thatch of the roofs. The generally peaceful villagers were being cut down bit by bit; even with surprise on their side, the goblins were still fighting desperate people.  
  
As several drew in from near the village's perimeter, a tenor cry of "BY THE GLORY OF FALIS!" could be heard. Contrasting sharply with the eager young voice was the shock wave of brilliant white light slamming into the goblins. Etoh smiled as he hefted the small mace that all of his order were trained in the use of. This at least he could do something about.  
  
Farther away a woman tripped in her running, falling to the ground as they drew nearer. Clutching her child, she cringed from the imagined blow.  
  
It never came. A heavy, double-sided battle-axe came whirring through the goblins, cutting down the first wave. Ghim and Slayn appeared between the mother and goblins, Ghim's face a grim smile, Slayn's pondering.  
  
His hand went out to forestall the dwarf as they drew nearer. "Wait a moment. They seem to be under the influence of some darker power."  
  
Ghim shrugged. "Can you do something about it?"  
  
Slayn raised his staff to his shoulder, his eyes closing as he began chanting. "You, who's hearts have been clouded by darkness, cast off these false garments and let your minds free."  
  
The light began glowing around his staff's crook as runes appeared engraved in it. Abruptly, a strange golden light flared in each of the goblins' eyes, only to fade out as their eyes returned to their normal dull brown. Slayn breathed a tired sigh of relief as the goblins collapsed.  
  
Ghim's eyes widened at the sight. "You really have been practicing, eh?"  
  
Cue the shrill scream of a Damsel in Distress (TM).  
  
The mayor came running out to them. "Liara! Liara!"  
  
It was not earlier noted, but this is his daughter's name. And of course, she is being menaced by the large, ugly, and generally unpleasant individual that led the goblin horde at the moment.  
  
Cue the not-so-righteous-or-Just-but-still-pretty-cool-hero (TM). (Zelgadis is a good example of this).  
  
Just as the goblin's cutlass was about to bisect her, Trent managed to shoot out of a nearby shadow, grabbing her with a rolling tackle. It didn't hurt as much as you'd expect; he was able to absorb the impact quite well. As most of the other goblins were either dead or running, he was able to devote all of his attention to the leader. "I killed your men, not them." He shoved Liara to the side and out of the way before joining the fight.  
  
Goblins by and large are tough brutes; little discipline, training, or intelligence, but a lot of power and they take a while to die. Excellent for faceless minions or cannon fodder. Elves are almost the total antithesis of this; light, graceful, intelligent, and skillful. That wasn't helping Trent all that much.  
  
He grimaced as he dodged another bone-cutting slash, parrying the next one. He was a lot stronger than his build would make you think, but he was still an elf; nowhere near as strong as some could be. So, he had to use his own advantages as much as possible; his speed, his agility, and most importantly, tricks.  
  
He stumbled under a vicious overhead slash that knocked him into the base of the village fountain. He gasped, swallowing as the tip of the goblin's sword came near.  
  
Ghim sighed, shaking his head. "Idiot. Ah well, may as well keep him alive."  
  
Slayn's hand again fell to his shoulder. "Wait. He's planning something."  
  
The goblin leader grinned maniacally for a moment, just before he rammed the sword through the dark elf's chest. His smile didn't have time to fade as Trent's katana chose that moment to pierce his throat from behind, only to be yanked upward viciously, bisecting the head.  
  
Trent smiled grimly as he levered himself out from a patch of shadow, his 'corpse' fading into a lump of dead leaves that blew away. "You know, my kind is always stereotyped as evil, deadly, traitorous, untrustworthy, and inveterately sneaky. Though I have to admit that the sneaky part is both accurate and warranted."  
  
--------  
  
That night, a markedly different group surrounded the mayor's home. A group bearing torches and pitchforks and complaining. Hands up, who doesn't think this is going to go well?  
  
"This is all that stupid elf's fault! He's the reason for this attack!"  
  
"We have to do something about him this instant!"  
  
The mayor held up his hands for silence, which miraculously he got. "It has become clear that something has occurred which is darkening the spirit of all Lodoss. Therefore, I have asked Trent to leave our village as a representative to find out the cause."  
  
THAT didn't sit well with them.  
  
--------  
  
About half a mile outside of the town, Trent shook his head, a small smile playing across his lips. He wondered how the people of Zaxom were reacting to his leaving. They'd probably be ticked for awhile that they hadn't been able to 'exact revenge' or some other nonsense, but he imagined that they would be celebrating good riddance within a week.  
  
"So, off on your own adventure?"  
  
Trent raised an eyebrow at Etoh. He'd heard him in the woods, but had assumed he was just gathering herbs or something. "You could say that."  
  
Etoh grinned. "Looks like we're both going to be on our own little adventure."  
  
Trent's eyes widened at that. The spawn of Falaris, and the now I'm traveling with a priest of Falis? The gods do have a sense of humor.  
  
From further down the road came Ghim's gruff voice. "You youngsters could use some older, wiser advice." He gave his companion an odd look. "Don't know why, but even lead-foot Slayn here has decided to join us."  
  
Trent shook his head rapidly a few times. Oo-kay. This is getting strange.  
  
In the trees above, Deedlit smiled. She'd left the world of the high elves for her curiosity, almost half a century ago. This strange dark elf, with his honor and respect of life intrigued her. It would be well worth her while to follow him. Besides, he was kind of cute.  
  
to be continued... 


	2. Fantasia, Chapter 02

Chapter Two The Black Knight  
  
To the southwest of Lodoss lies the island of Marmo. The final battle of the War of the Gods, in which Marfa and Kardis died giving birth to the cursed land, split off Marmo as well. The deathbed where Kardis's body sleeps, it alone was un-cleansed by Marfa's life.  
  
Nor was the Goddess of Destruction the only force that made Marmo what should have been a no-mans-land. In the catacombs beneath Castle Conquera slept Narse, the black dragon, one of five Ancient dragons who had survived the War of the Gods. For the first time in millennia, he stirred.  
  
Above, in the castle's throne room, a massive, red-haired man's eyes snapped open simultaneously with the dragon's.  
  
Below, Narse's forked tail rose, only to slam back down spastically, shattering a small amount of rock.  
  
In the throne room, Beld, the red-haired King of Marmo, rose to his feet. "It is time." Easily six and a half feet tall, Beld was a gigantic figure of a man, every inch tightly bound in corded muscle that bulged under his black, gold-traced armor and fur-trimmed black cloak.  
  
At his side, Wagnard, the high priest of Falaris grinned. Tall and skinny, his pale skin stretched over his almost flesh-less face gave him the eerie visage of a re-animated corpse. His golden-embroidered robe of scarlet silk velvet did nothing to hide this. "At last..."  
  
The other figure in the throne room could not have been a greater contrast. As tall as Beld, he lacked his over-whelming size. He didn't need it to fill the room. Still muscular, he wore gleaming black armor, the only decoration being the almost delicate tracings of gold across his torque. Pale where Beld was roughly tanned, his hair was a silky mane of black that fell to well past his shoulders. Whereas Beld radiated brute power and Wagnard evil, Ashram, the black knight and captain of the royal guards radiated a far more cultured menace; that of a reptile rather than a roaring tiger. "Highness."  
  
Beld's hand crept downward to his great sword. "All of Lodoss will tremble under my feet." He unsheathed just an inch of the blade, letting a dark energy begin radiating from the sword named Soul Crusher. "By this sword, I so swear it."  
  
Ashram's eyes widened at the blade. In all of his time as the royal general, he had never seen it unsheathed. Bathed in the blood of a demon king over thirty years ago, it was the single overwhelming symbol of who ruled this island. Falcon-like, his head swiveled to the side as a new presence registered on his finely-tuned senses.  
  
"As it should."  
  
Wagnard frowned at the lilting female voice with its strange echoes. "Who's there?"  
  
She was tall and slender, easily six feet in height. Her pale skin accentuated her pale violet lipstick and eyes. She wore a long, simple garment in a deeper purple under a long black cloak. Her chief ornament was a circlet worn on her head; golden, inlaid with two small, spherical rubies and a single jade.  
  
Karla, the grey witch, smiled as she gazed at the three. She gave Beld little time, Wagnard even less. Beld was a simple brute, Wagnard an oily sycophant and slave to his religion. Neither could ever be a threat to her great plans. Ashram...perhaps he could be used. If not, he had great potential for whatever he chose. "I have come to aid you, highness."  
  
Beld gave her a strange look, but that was all. The laws of Marmo were quite simple. Obey the strong and you wouldn't be killed. She would be spared so long as she earned that right.  
  
--------  
  
Farther northeast, two humans, a dwarf, and a dark elf were currently stopping for a rest. Slayn was resting, his back against a tree as he read one of his various magic books. Etoh was standing back to watch as Ghim and Trent had a sparring match.  
  
"HYAH!"  
  
CLANG!  
  
SHRANG!  
  
Etoh was not what you'd consider much of a fighter. Oh, between his clerical magic and his mace he could generally defend himself well enough, but he was no real warrior or soldier. Even so, it was blatantly obvious that the elf and the dwarf were fighting in two wildly different styles.  
  
Ghim he likened to a bear that was defending a cave or something; he wasn't really moving, just waiting for opportunities to pivot and slash, going neither back or forward. Trent's style on the other hand seemed to be nothing but motion; where Ghim parried and blocked, Trent dodged or lightly deflected. Trent's attacks were always quick and fast; charging slashes and thrusts, but mainly slashes and slicing attacks.  
  
Even so, Ghim was better. Elves live longer than dwarves, but Ghim was late in his prime and Trent was young by his standards. Ghim was clearly the more experienced and the stronger, while Trent suffered from a disadvantage only too common to elves; he lacked serious strength and endurance. His brutal training years ago under his father made him nearly super-human compared to other elves, but that still wasn't enough; he could outlast some humans, but not this rock named Ghim.  
  
His next charge brought him close enough for serious work, as Ghim used the gap between his two axe blades to catch Trent's katana blade, using a twist to try and wrench it out of his hands. Trent leapt and moved with the motion, drawing his sword out from the grip as he rolled. "You know, for a dwarf you're an exceptionally versatile fighter."  
  
Ghim snorted in disdain. Culturally, dwarves and elves pretty much hate each other. Still, the kid was good enough to earn his respect. "And for an elf, you've got seem decent power. Not bad at all."  
  
Trent grinned sardonically as he sheathed his blade. He'd never admit it, but he kind of like the grumbly, irreverent dwarf. Even if he was a pain in the ass sometimes, but then again Trent probably was too.  
  
--------  
  
Nearby, a large stone fortress dropped the drawbridge as ten or so horsemen thundered out, yelling at the top of their lungs.  
  
"Don't let any of those beasts escape!"  
  
"Yes Sir!"  
  
--------  
  
Following their little bout, Trent had decided to go off on his own for a bit. If nothing else, Alania's a beautiful country, he idly thought as he hopped into a nearby tree. One of the biggest problems between dwarves and elves was elemental alignment. Elves were creatures of the air, while dwarves of the earth. High elves were of light, while dark elves and dwarves preferred darkness. As such, while Ghim liked the rock and dirt, Trent vastly preferred someplace where he could hear the wind and rain and feel the air.  
  
Settling himself into the crook of a large branch, he slipped out his flute again. It was hardly a beautiful instrument; just carved bamboo reed stained a darker brown in streaks. The little magic and such he knew that wasn't combat-oriented had gone almost totally towards the instrument; it was stronger than most steel alloys and had a mystical beacon tuned to his own personal energies; he could never lose it. He didn't realize it, but his constant playing on the instrument had resulted in something he'd never expected. It responded now to his empathic states, projecting what he felt to a small degree. When he was sad or in a dark mood, the music could turn others towards that. His happiness could cheer people up; his anger could inspire battle. Just sheer-bloody-mindedness and constant use had made him a very low-level bard.  
  
He leaned into the bark of the tree as he began to play. It was an old song that he had often piped, one that he'd learned while still in his cradle. It was neither long nor particularly difficult, nor even that impressive in terms of just the notes. Still, something happened as he played the slow, constantly moving, mournful notes. It went on like that for several minutes; when he played, Trent lost himself to the sound. Nothing else could penetrate until he was done. Still, he drew to a close.  
  
"That was beautiful."  
  
Trent's eyes snapped open at the voice. They widened even further at the sight of a high elf maiden sitting a few branches away. Something about her tugged at his memory. "You're that elf I met outside the goblins' caves. The one who warned me about Zaxom coming under attack."  
  
Deedlit smiled and nodded. "I saw your battle. It's not every day that I meet dark elves who selflessly protect young human girls."  
  
Trent allowed himself to relax. Most dark elves got along horribly with the other sub-races of their kind. The fact that this young slip of a maiden was being so nice to him was damn near a miracle. "Thank you."  
  
Deed blinked in surprise. "Thank me?"  
  
"I wanted to thank you for that warning. I probably would have kept hunting for those goblins in the woods if you hadn't; I doubt I would have been there in time to help without you."  
  
He blinked in surprise as she laughed happily. It wasn't a rude or contemptuous sound, just genuine happiness. Yet another rare happening with a high elf. "Well, aren't you polite."  
  
Trent allowed himself a similar smile. He didn't mind humans, but he didn't understand them in the least. It was nice to be around her. His smile unfortunately didn't last as his senses picked up an unwelcome presence. Proud, skilled, powerful, and arrogant to the point of self- endangerment; oh, he recognized that all too well. He leapt out of the branches, slipping away his flute as he loosened his sword.  
  
Loping along the ground were about seven kobolds. They resembled were- wolves to a small extent; the vaguely human-shaped bodies were topped with dog-like heads, their entire bodies covered in creamy gray fur. The only difference was that they lacked the stature and raw power of a true Were- beast, and were a lot easier to control. That, and they wore the livery of Marmo soldiers.  
  
Trent dropped out of the ground in front of them. "Where do you think you're going?"  
  
The seven of them snarled in answer. They didn't really have a language per se, more a kind of pack mind. Deed faded into sight next to him. "Impetuous aren't you?"  
  
Trent grinned as they charged him. Snapping out his short-sword, he very quickly killed two of them, leaping out of the melee just as quickly. "Just good enough." He slammed his pommel into another's chin as the one who had chosen to attack the elf-girl found out the hard and unpleasant way that she was an expert swords woman with her rapier. "Listen, I sensed a dark elf somewhere, the one leading this little knot. See if you can't find and deal with him. I'll get rid of them."  
  
Deedlit gave him a shocked look. "Another dark elf?"  
  
As if in answer to her words, two slender throwing daggers shot out from the trees towards her. She deflected both, catching sight of him. Dressed in black and wearing a violet cloak, he hardly blended into the forest.  
  
She leapt into the air, fading in and out of the greenery as she tried to track him down. She gasped, barely managing to dodge another throwing knife. As it was, she suffered a small, superficial cut on her left arm.  
  
Below, another Kobold had been killed before Deed faded back into sight next to Trent. He grimaced sympathetically at her wound. "You OK?"  
  
Deed didn't bother to answer; it only stung. "He's a strong one. I don't much fancy it, but if we don't run..." She winced as the dark elf faded into sight. "Too late now."  
  
His eyes widened as he saw Trent. "Well, well, well. The infamous Shadowlight." He grinned. "I'm sure to be rewarded for your death."  
  
Deed looked at him curiously. "Shadowlight?"  
  
He was spared the need to explain by Etoh's mace stabbing into the ground before them. The dark elf drew back, hissing (mocking of Bela Lugosi) at the sight of the holy artifact.  
  
Ghim hefted his axe grimly as he charged towards Trent and Deed. "So, why didn't you invite us to playtime?"  
  
Deed looked at him in disgust. "And I suppose this looks like play to a dwarf?"  
  
"Hunh! I suppose Kobolds do make for pretty poor playmates."  
  
At that moment, The dark elf frowned, glancing to the side, before fading away. The kobolds chose a slightly less dramatic exit, loping further into the undergrowth.  
  
Etoh blinked in confusion. "Why'd they just run off?"  
  
Trent jerked a thumb to the side. "Alanian soldiers," he said, somehow managing to keep from spitting the word.  
  
--------  
  
CLANG!  
  
Etoh stared in shock at the dungeon gate. He hadn't the slightest idea why, but the soldiers had chosen after escorting them into Fortress Myce to toss them unceremoniously into the brig. "Hey, we're just travelers! We have nothing to do with those other goblins!"  
  
"We'll decide that after the Captain returns. Until then, cool your heels."  
  
"Save your breath," came a tired reply.  
  
"Who's there?" asked Ghim.  
  
Slayn relaxed as he took in the man's battered appearance. Looking to be somewhere between his late twenties and thirties, he seemed as though dungeons were something he was familiar with. Long, tangled black hair hung down to his shoulders, a strip of red cloth a half-hearted attempt to keep it under control. His rough, tanned face was adorned by a long scar along the temple and an X-shaped one on his chin. He was dressed in pale blue hose and a black shirt, a battered chest-plate of leather armor covering his torso. "Scream all you like, they won't do a thing until their commander gets back."  
  
Ghim snorted. "A thief, by the looks of him."  
  
The thief (Ghim's assumption being accurate) grinned. "Looks are pretty much equal down here."  
  
"Don't assume that we're like you," Deed barked at him.  
  
At the sound of the female voice, he levered himself up slightly for a better look. "Well as I live and breathe, a lovely little elf wench!"  
  
Deedlit frowned irritably at the 'wench' comment, but refrained from speaking. Slayn calmly sat down. "I'm sure that when the captain gets back, he'll see that this was all a simple misunderstanding."  
  
--------  
  
Ashram frowned at the dark elf reporting to him. "Strangers you say?"  
  
The elf nodded. "They have been taken to fortress Myce."  
  
"Fortress Myce..."  
  
"You are not to overlook the slightest pebble which may impede Lord Beld's advance," Karla's voice rang out. "Is that not your primary duty as captain of the royal guards?"  
  
Ashram gave her a cold look. "It goes without saying."  
  
Reading the unspoken comments, the dark elf spoke up. "One of them is a dark elf unaligned with Marmo. He is...something of a criminal to my people. If possible, I would like to be the one who kills him."  
  
Ashram dismissed it. "Kill him if you find him. If someone else does first, then it is of little consequence."  
  
Karla's mysterious smile finally seemed to reach her eyes. The elf would live, and she would later have many uses for him.  
  
--------  
  
To the southeast marched the main armies of Marmo, a vast horde of goblins, mercenaries, ogres, kobolds, and god only knows what else. Wagnard smiled evilly as he gazed across the hillsides of the lush country before them. Far in the distance stood a large, bustling city overlooking a gigantic fresh water lake. The city spread across the ground, the center a large hill dominated by an ornate palace. "With the conquest of Shining Hill, all of the East of Lodoss will be yours," he said as he drew his horse next to the Emperor Beld's. "May the divine protection of Falaris be with us."  
  
Beld spared a moment of thought then snorted in contempt. "His help will not be needed. With this sword, I will take back the power long denied Falaris." He drew the great sword Soul Crusher, and stabbed it towards Shining Hill in a gesture of command.  
  
War had begun.  
  
--------  
  
Sparing a glance at the progress Etoh was having at healing the slight wound on Deedlit's arm, Trent turned back towards the thief. "So 'Woodchuck,' what happened to you? Why are you in here?"  
  
The thief laughed to himself from his nook filled with straw. "Guess you could say that I had a bit of a run of bad luck. Alania's in for a run of bad luck herself. So I decided that I'd put together my own little war chest and head off for another country." He sighed. "Guess Falis just wasn't looking out for me this time."  
  
"Falis doesn't grant his protection to thieves," Etoh replied automatically, not bothering to look up from his healing.  
  
Woodchuck snorted in disdain. "Oh, so Falis is protecting Kannon and Alania with all his might?"  
  
Trent frowned. "What do you mean by that?"  
  
Woodchuck's eyes widened slightly as he sat up. "You didn't know? Troops from Marmo have landed." Ignoring the sudden snapping open of Ghim and Slayn's eyes, he continued blithely. "It's because the troops of Kannon are even more pathetic than Alania's. Both countries are full of smart guys who couldn't give a rat's ass about the military, so I thought I'd try Valis this time."  
  
"Valis?" Trent asked absently, his thoughts to the dark elf who'd recognized him.  
  
Woodchuck gave him a conspiratorial look. "Yep. You want the strongest knights in all the land...you head for Valis."  
  
They stopped their conversation as they heard the door to the dungeon jangle open. Walking down the steps was the erstwhile 'Captain.' Tall, muscular, and broad-shouldered, his blond hair and mustache were impeccably trimmed as befit a military man. "Are these the Marmo spies you captured?"  
  
"Yes Sir!"  
  
"Spies?!" Deed sputtered. "Us?"  
  
"Can't say I blame them, considering that I'm with you," Trent said from the shadows. "Sorry about that."  
  
Capt. Jebra snorted disdainfully. "Light!"  
  
As the torchlight finally revealed them, Jebra's eyes widened in shock at the sight of Etoh. "What?! You?!"  
  
Etoh blink-blinked in shock at him. "Eh?"  
  
Jebra leaned forward. "Lauma Adonia Moil de Falis?"  
  
Etoh smiled as recognition dawned. "Moiros Lam," he replied in old Kastuulian.  
  
Jebra's eyes widened even further. "Then you really are a priest of Falis." He stepped back, bowing deeply. "My humble apologies for this retched treatment."  
  
Etoh blinked in shock again, then smiled. Hey, it got them out.  
  
--------  
  
In Jebra's room in the fortress's Keep, he continued his profuse apologies.  
  
Etoh genially waved a hand. "It was an honest misunderstanding. Don't feel bad about it."  
  
Slayn looked at Jebra. "Woodchuck mentioned that troops from Marmo had landed. Is there any truth to that?"  
  
Jebra frowned in thought. "Woodchuck? Oh, that thief." He sighed. "Unfortunately, yes. If war does come to Alania, we're the first line of defense."  
  
Deed turned to Trent curiously. "That dark elf leading the Kobolds we saw called you Shadowlight. What did he mean?"  
  
Jebra's eyes widened. "The Shadowlight? You?!"  
  
Trent didn't bother to open his eyes. "I was unaware of that many humans who knew."  
  
Jebra swallowed nervously. "I...have heard your reputation. A dark elf we captured a long time ago said something about you."  
  
Slayn frowned. "What's going on?"  
  
Trent stretched out lazily. "It's between me and the rest of the Dark Elf society, so don't worry. I'm a wanted criminal to them, for the deaths of a few high-ranking war party leaders and such."  
  
From below a window came a call. "Capt. Jebra!"  
  
Jebra gave Trent an odd look, but crossed to look out his window. "What is it?"  
  
"We're ready for your inspections!"  
  
Jebra nodded then gestured for them to proceed him.  
  
In the courtyard below, they found two of the soldiers going at it, each armed with a breastplate, broadsword, and buckler. Jebra smiled proudly. "What do you think of them?" As the two fought, Jebra continued his own thoughts. "Alania has always valued knowledge over strength. For men who are too strong, it's not easy to live here. This fortress and others like it are places for those who can't live anywhere else."  
  
"Keeping all the violent men in one place?" Deed quipped, smiling.  
  
"Deed..." Etoh began.  
  
Jebra simply laughed at her. "There's no need for that." The match ended abruptly as one of the two soldiers managed to knock the broadsword out of his opponent's hand.  
  
Jebra turned a piercing eye towards Trent. "Care for a quick match?"  
  
Trent gave him a similar look, though far colder. "I'd rather not. My experiences with the Alanian military are not ones I enjoyed."  
  
Jebra's stare turned curious. "Come, I need some exercise once in a while, and none of my men are good enough."  
  
Trent sighed, shaking his head. Wordlessly, he unsheathed his katana, his long dagger in his left hand instead of a shield. Jebra chose the buckler and his broadsword, not bothering with a breastplate.  
  
Trent bowed formally to his opponent's salute, then took up a relaxed stance with his hands to either side of him. As Jebra attacked, he leapt backwards, dodging the slashes and thrusts, occasionally counter-attacking with short cuts.  
  
Deed frowned. She'd seen that particular style before but...her eyes widened in shock. He's a...  
  
The match ended abruptly. Jebra's next attack proved a savage sideways slash. Trent bent to the side, then shot forward. He stopped a few feet away, the tip of his saber a bare inch away from the Captain's throat. After a few seconds of holding, he pulled back the weapon. "You're quite good. Try relying more on your sword rather than your shield though."  
  
Jebra gave him a piercing look, though thankfully not malicious. "I'll consider it. You deserve your reputation...assassin," he whispered the last.  
  
--------  
  
That night, little happened for a time. A young sentry on the top of the southern wall yawned tiredly as for the moment, things remained peaceful. Abruptly, some kind of unseen force struck him. It was frightening to watch, as he seemed to be boiled alive from the inside, his body purpling and bursting in steam, only to shrivel in a second.  
  
Within her room, Deedlit's eyes shot open as she sat up in bed. Jebra had chosen to give her a separate room from the rest of the travelers (he was quite chivalrous for a human), but at the moment it was proving to be rather irritating. She burst into Slayn's quarters, only to find him in a similar state of shocked unrest.  
  
"I felt it too. It's as though some great power, frighteningly powerful magic has arisen."  
  
Deed gasped as her head turned to the side, finding Trent gone.  
  
--------  
  
Wood stared at him in shock. "What?! You want to know where the Marmo are camped? Why the hell would you want to go anywhere near that place?!"  
  
Trent gave him a cool look. "Dark elves are with the Marmo. I have some business with what's left of my race."  
  
Woodchuck groaned to himself. "Goddamn crazy elves...Look, I know they're taking out Kannon first. That's about it. Still, its not exactly hard to figure out where the real battles going to be, and with who."  
  
Trent nodded. "Yep. Beld wants Valis and King Fahn's head. So I guess I may as well head there."  
  
"Hey...how about springing me out of here?"  
  
Trent gave him a wry grin. "Oh, of course. Just wait until after we've left, and I'll spring you then." Further talk was halted as some kind of explosion took place outside. Trent charged out of the dungeon, despite Wood's bellows to come back and let him out.  
  
In the fortress's courtyard, Trent's eyes widened in shock as the towers adorning the outer wall exploded in fire spells.  
  
The dark elf grinned slightly as he faded into sight before the gateway. Trent glared coldly at him, his hand snapping to his shoulder. His glare hardened slightly as he found air; he'd neglected to bring his katana.  
  
The dark elf took that opportunity to send a throwing knife towards Trent. He dodged it easily, his hand yanking out the short sword at his waist. The next flurry of knives were deflected by Trent's blade. He whipped his sword in an arc as he leapt backwards, cutting down two goblins that had been trying to sneak up on him.  
  
"Trent!" Deed called, sending two knives towards the dark elf.  
  
He turned, catching the sheathed blade tossed to him. He charged Deed, yanking the sword from the sheath in the same motion. Her eyes widened in shock at his headlong charge.  
  
SHRANG VVVSHUM!  
  
She swallowed nervously as he appeared behind her, taking out a pair of orcs. "Listen, Wood's still stuck, in the dungeon. I need to try and get him out. Hold down the fort, would you?"  
  
Deed nodded, turning to the attacking dark elf. "Go."  
  
Trent sliced apart another two or three goblins, but for the most part ignored anything that wasn't in his immediate way. His eyes widened in shock as a fire spell abruptly impacted the keep, sending down the roof. He charged in regardless. "WOOD! IF YOU'RE ALIVE, START YELLING!"  
  
"You son of a bitch!" he growled. "You said you were going to be right back!"  
  
Trent grinned weakly in relief at the sight of Woodchuck buried under a few of the beams, but for the most part unharmed. "Hey, thief's got to depend on his own wits, huh?" he quipped as he started levering aside the wooden beams.  
  
Wood snorted as he turned his head. I can't believe he actually took the time to come back for me. Who'd of thought... "Hey! Hey, get back here and finish the job!"  
  
Trent spared him a glance. "You can get those last two on your own; there's a battle up there that's a bit more pressing." He grinned tightly at the curses Woodchuck hurled after him as he leapt back onto the field. He cursed at the sight of the nearly overrun tower; some of the initial shock troops had managed to lever open the door, letting the bigger orcs and ogres a chance to get into the battle. He leapt to the side as one of the eight-foot tall ogres took a swing at him with a war scythe, three of his throwing daggers streaking out into its chest.  
  
"Trent!" Deedlit called as the battle continued. Once again, the dark elf she'd been fighting had disappeared. She gasped as two throwing knives came towards her, followed by a charging elf. She yanked up her sword to parry, but it was knocked aside by his sheer force. As he raised his sword, he screamed in pain as the head of a javelin blossomed in his chest.  
  
Jebra panted, his sword left in one hand, his other clasping a gaping wound in his side. Trent's eyes widened at the sight as he ran forward, Slayn, Ghim, and Etoh also coming forward. "Etoh, try to stop the bleeding."  
  
As the priest knelt beside the captain, he shook it aside. "Save your treatment." Painfully, he dragged himself to his feet. "None of you are connected to this fortress. Leave while you can."  
  
Trent glared at him. "Are you stupid or something? We're not just leaving you to die."  
  
Jebra coughed as he used his sword like a walking stick. "No, you're leaving so you can warn the rest of Alania of this attack. Please..."  
  
Deed and Etoh grabbed Trent's shoulders to hold him back as he tried to follow Jebra. Ghim jogged in front of him just long enough to slam a clenched fist into the dark elf's gut.  
  
Trent gasped in pain as he fell to his knees, the world beginning to go dark. "Jebra...you idiot..."  
  
Elsewhere in the fortress, Ashram finally deigned to take part. On a black horse as slender and regally menacing as himself, he surveyed the destruction he had ordered and orchestrated. Across the courtyard, he could hear the clopping of other hooves. Drawing closer on a pale, grayish white horse galloped Captain Jebra, broadsword outstretched in his right hand. Ashram gazed at him coldly as he drew nearer and nearer. Mere yards away, Jebra reared back in his saddle for a slash. In that instant, Ashram struck.  
  
His hand shot under his cloak to his side, grasping the simple haft of his own long sword. A single, sideways stroke slipping under and past Jebra's guard was all it took to kill horse and rider in one titanic slash. Jebra barely had time to scream.  
  
Outside, Trent gasped as he sat up. He winced at the ache in his gut, but for the most part ignored it. He turned to the now blazing walls of Fortress Myce, ignoring Deed, ignoring Slayn and Ghim, ignoring Etoh and Woodchuck. He stood up, scorning aid, to stare at a mirror image of his own darkness.  
  
On the burning fortifications stood a man with eyes that glittered like ice. In the field below stood a second, whose frigid eyes matched the other, cold for cold. And between those two icy gazes, the flames of war were kindled.  
  
to be continued... 


	3. Fantasia, Chapter 03

Chapter Three The Grey Witch  
  
South of Fortress Myce stood the outposts of Kannon. One of the older kingdoms of Lodoss, it was similar to the Alania, in that it valued the mind and learning over the military. This was admirable, but proved to be slightly less than intelligent when they were the nearest area conquerable by the vicious and highly trained armies of Marmo.  
  
Deeper in the forests near the border, Trent shook his head in disgust at the one-sided battle. The soldiers of Kannon hadn't stood a chance in hell; they were hardly even trying.  
  
Sighing, he slipped deeper into some of the foliage and began making for the border. It had taken him over a half hour of arguing to convince the other five members of his party to let him go gallivanting off to check the advance of the Marmo. Debate was...not his strong suit. He usually didn't argue, or solved problems by simply removing them. Having to deal with Deed's stubborn refusals to let him do anything dangerous (he couldn't figure out why; he was an assassin and a warrior for god's sake) had eaten up most of his time. In the end, he'd had to promise that he would only be gone for a day while actually checking the progress of the enemy, and that he wouldn't actually attempt to fight anyone.  
  
A bit less than he had hoped for.  
  
One ability or talent that all elves share is there ability to slip through woodlands. Between their light builds, natural affinity for leaping, easy grace, and superb sense of balance, they were built for it better than most monkeys or squirrels.  
  
Add to that the training that Trent's father had given him as a ranger and the assassin training his mother had given him (which was several orders of magnitude more strenuous), he was as close to being a ghost in trees as a living person could be.  
  
"Look what we have here boys."  
  
Trent froze as he heard the voice in the distance (an elf's pointed ears aren't just for show.) He quietly chanted the spell he used to make him harder to see, and slipped through the air and canopy towards whatever was babbling.  
  
It ended up being, predictably enough, Alanian foot soldiers.  
  
Who had come across a much smaller contingent of dark elves, presumably of Marmo.  
  
The dozen or so of them were at the moment discussing what to do with the four elves they'd caught.  
  
What you have to understand here is that there were several concepts that made up who Trent was. One of these is that by and large, other members of his race are what humans stereotype them as. Crafty, sneaky, and not to be trusted. Though generally the lack of trust is due to elves being smart enough to assume that humans betray them a lot more often (which isn't quite true, but close enough).  
  
The other fundamental factor coming into conflict was that Alanian soldiers were scum. They were generally the mercenaries that the king was cheap enough to higher, or the criminals, conscripts, and generally deplorable individuals that shouldn't have been trusted within a thousand feet of a weapon.  
  
So the question was, who to help?  
  
One of them, the leader judging by the ornately embroidered badge on his beret leered appreciatively at one of them. "Now, now boys, there's no reason to be rude. After all, I'm certain that this little thing would be...cooperative."  
  
Another fundamental concept came into play. You could skin a rapist alive over the course of three days, and he'd still deserve every bit of it. Decision made.  
  
The three males of the elves drew themselves into a line to block their leader; they had long since been trained not to hesitate to give up their lives in the defense of her.  
  
The leader tsked at them. "Oh, not willing to share? Well, we can certainly deal with the three of you first." They unsheathed swords or hefted spears, but they were confident. The odds were three to one; how could they possibly lose?  
  
Four of them died simultaneously as Trent's throwing scalpels buried themselves in the jugulars of each target. Two others soldiers were almost instantly bisected by his sword.  
  
The other elves were stunned at this turn of events; in less than five seconds their opponents had been reduced by half. Still, they knew better than to look this gift horse in the mouth. Thirty bloody seconds later, it was over.  
  
Trent allowed his spell to dissolve as he faded back into sight. He appraised the four elves absently. The three men were more or less typical of the race. One looked like he could have been the brother of the elf that Jebra had killed; dark, muddy brown skin, platinum blond hair, and decidedly average features. The other had grayish white hair and extremely pale skin, his features much smoother until they came to sharp edges along the center of his nose and brow. The last looked older, scruffier, and more experienced. His skin was darker than the pale one's, but not by much. Uncharacteristically for an elf, he sported facial hair; a goatee and thin, impeccably trimmed mustache.  
  
Their leader was one of the females. Dark elf society by and large is matriarchal, so this didn't surprise Trent in the least. What did surprise him was her appearance.  
  
Even for an elf, she was stunning. Her skin was darkest of the four, a rich chocolate color. Her features were both smooth and sharp in different places, giving her even more of an appearance of ethereal beauty than was typical for elves. Her hair was silver white, and came down almost to her knees, bound into a tail roughly at her shoulder blades. Her clothing was also...well, less rugged. She wore a short dress of some kind of almost violet-tinged white cloth; sleeve-less, it came barely to mid-thigh, the front a v-neck very openly displaying her...assets.  
  
Trent forced himself to ignore her appearance. "Leave here. More soldiers will eventually come."  
  
Pirotess, the dark elf woman cocked her head to the side as she gazed at him. "Who are you?"  
  
Trent swallowed imperceptibly at her golden eyes. He had to leave immediately; they'd probably kill him when they found out. He invoked the shadow-walking spell he used for quick get-aways, slipping through the dark spots against a tree trunk. Before the shadow's gate closed completely, he whispered, "Shadowlight."  
  
Pirotess's eyes widened in absolute shock. Like most of her generation, she was rather...well acquainted with the near-legendary exploits of her race's most feared criminal. Actually coming across a man who'd been spoken of as the elf equivalent of the bogeyman was a decidedly less than comfortable experience. Especially considering that he'd just risked his life to save the people he was better known for hunting down like animals.  
  
She shook her head, managing to successfully banish at least part of what she was thinking. She was a leader, a soldier...no more than that she was a warrior. She had duty to do. Once that was over, she could find some answers.  
  
--------  
  
Arguably the strongest nation of all Lodoss was Valis; the great holy kingdom dedicated to the god Falis. Located in the central areas of the continent, it was home to those who were generally regarded to be the strongest and most skilled warriors of the entire world.  
  
Within the castle of Roid, King Fahn gazed down nobly upon his daughter Fiana. In his seventies, he was no less an imposing figure, in many ways the flip side of a coin to Beld. Just as tall and muscular, his silver hair was let loose in a flowing mane down his back, the thin circlet of gold that marked him king keeping it back.  
  
"Fiana, this journey will not be a pleasant one. However, I have total faith that you will execute your duties as princess successfully."  
  
Fiana nodded. She couldn't have been more than fifteen years old; short and slight, pale-skinned and black-haired, only the richness of her garb really making her royalty clear; she could have been Liara's sister. "I understand, father. I will see to it that your message to King Kadamos goes through."  
  
Fahn turned his old, tired eyes on the two holy knights kneeling behind Fiana. "See my daughter...no, see the princess safely on her way."  
  
The higher ranking of the two looked up, bowing formally to his king. "Do not fear your majesty. Your daughter will be safe with us."  
  
--------  
  
Trent stared in abject disgust at the gate guards for Alan, the royal capital. "Let me make sure I have this right. Your king has decided that no one is to be allowed into the royal capital, regardless of the fact that one is a priest of Falis, and the other is a citizen of your country."  
  
The leader glared coldly. "We don't care. Our orders are to not let anyone into the city, including citizens."  
  
Etoh stared at them incredulously. "What's going on?!"  
  
"None of your business! Alania will not take part in a war, but they will not be subjugated either."  
  
"Meaning they've decided to sit this one out," Woodchuck quipped. "Bitch, ain't it?"  
  
Trent glared at them. "Then why the hell did Fortress Myce die? Does that matter at all to you?"  
  
"A SINGLE FORTRESS IS AN ACCEPTABLE LOSS!"  
  
Trent ground his teeth, visibly forcing himself not to go for his scalpels. Etoh and Deed throwing themselves on his shoulders weren't needed, though he'd admit that the feeling against his shoulder blades of Deed's...He took a deep, shuddering breath to both banish his hostility and any other emotions. "You know, I'd really hoped that my opinion of your nation's army couldn't possibly drop any lower. Thanks for destroying that hope."  
  
The Alanian soldier's glare could have ignited paper, but he simply turned and walked back into the gate, showing remarkable self-control.  
  
--------  
  
The advance of the hordes of Marmo proved to be far greater than anyone would have dared to imagine. Landing on the lakes that rimmed Kannon's capital of Shining Hill, the ruthless army had subjugated the city and thus the entire nation in mere days.  
  
In the palace's throne room, King Kannon was unceremoniously dragged before King Beld, his arms shackled behind him. Tall and thin, his pale skin and immaculately trimmed gray hair and beard made him look more like a merchant or an accountant than a King.  
  
Wagnard smiled as the knights threw him to the ground. "Come now King Kannon. All you need do is surrender to avoid any further unnecessary bloodshed."  
  
Despite his appearance, Kannon had at least some pride. "And who would willingly deal with devils?!" He managed to pull himself onto his knees without aid. "Even should the royal house fall, the people of Kannon will never submit to your rule!"  
  
Beld's lazy smile never wavered. "I see." Without further words, he extended the silver goblet in his hand, pouring out the blood red wine until it stained the flagstones. Kannon's eyes widened in shock; to him, it looked as though Beld had been drinking blood; blood that he had commanded to be spilt by his knights.  
  
Without further ado, the knights linked their arms around Kannon and dragged him away; to execution or merely imprisonment, one or the other.  
  
From a curtained alcove came Karla's lilting voice. "Well played Lord Beld. With this, the entire south of Lodoss is yours."  
  
Beld showed the first signs of feeling. "Ashram...reports favorably then?"  
  
Karla's smiles seemed to widen minutely. "'Tis early for such glad tidings. But fear not. Despite their numbers, Alania is absolutely no threat." She seemed to glance through the walls, far beyond what her eyes actually saw. "An emissary has been dispatched from Valis."  
  
Beld's smiled widened hungrily. "Fahn...he's making his move."  
  
"I will attend to this my lord," were Karla's last words before she faded from the throne room.  
  
Wagnard looked back to where she had once been. "A cunning woman, is she not?"  
  
Beld continued to stare, before tossing his now empty goblet across the stones contemptuously. "We'll continue to use her as long as it proves convenient for us."  
  
--------  
  
"Trent! TRENT!"  
  
Deedlit put on a burst of speed to cut off the dark elf. "How long are you going to keep sulking like this, eh?"  
  
Trent sighed. It was nice to not be treated like a leper anymore, but why on earth was she trying so hard to play nursemaid? "I'm not sulking at all."  
  
Deed glared at him. He was so damn irritating, and he was way too quiet! He needed to start actually living rather than just going through motions!  
  
Slayn gazed ahead. "Are you sure you want to try that? You're heading into the Forest of No Return."  
  
Etoh and Woodchuck started in horror. Wood gaped. "Wh-whoa, we're...we're not going in there, are we?"  
  
Trent nodded. "I can't shadow walk too far, and regardless I can't drag any of you along with me. It's the fastest way to Valis."  
  
Woodchuck sprinted for all he was worth to try and cut of Trent. "Hey, come on now. Be reasonable! There are a lot of other ways to Valis...safer ways?"  
  
Trent shook his head. "How many people are going to die while we mosey our way down the primrose path? We don't have the time for the luxury of safety. This is the only road to Valis we can take, and Valis is pretty much the only nation willing to make a stand against Marmo with any chance of success."  
  
Ghim snorted. "And I suppose you're going to be fighting alongside Fahn? Dark elves and Holy Knights...never thought I'd see the day."  
  
Trent grinned darkly as he continued. "Almost as hard to believe as a dark elf tolerating a dwarf, huh?"  
  
Woodchuck snorted, shaking his head. "The hell with that! You ever heard of anyone getting out of that deathtrap alive?!"  
  
"Then I'll be the first, huh? I can live with that."  
  
Woodchuck started growling in exasperation. "Oh come on! Will somebody talk some sense into this guy?"  
  
Trent shrugged. "If you don't want to come, don't. I can shadow walk there."  
  
"Let's go then." Deed chirped, much to Wood's dismay and Trent's surprise. "Let's go into the forest of no return," she said, smiling. It was nice to see him finally caring about something, letting a little bit of passion reach the surface.  
  
Slayn turned to Ghim as the High elf led them into the forest. "What of your own journey?"  
  
Ghim shouldered his pack, suddenly morose as he walked forward. "Don't bother yourself with my business."  
  
Before they had gone more than a few dozen feet into the woods, Deed stopped them. "Listen to me. Before we go in there, you must empty your hearts and minds. Anger, hostility, fear...you must leave all these behind."  
  
Ghim snorted in disgust. "Figures the elf would try and order us around."  
  
Deed smiled sweetly at him. "I meant that for the rest of us. A dwarf wouldn't feel any emotions if he wanted to," she quipped, reveling in his disgusted snort. Turning, she raised both hands before her. "Lord of the forest, guardian of all plants, open the forbidden gateways and let us pass through to the metropolis. Lord of the forest, guardian of all plants, open the forbidden gateways and let us pass through to the metropolis."  
  
A pale, faint golden light seemed to roll out of the woods like a mist. Deed gestured purposefully. "Come on!"  
  
Wood grinned sarcastically. "'Come on in' she says. Sure." He gaped in comic dismay as no one else seemed to share his reservations. "Oy! Wait for me!"  
  
Trent blinked, shaking his head dazedly as they entered the forest. "I feel strange; its like something's flowing out of me."  
  
Slayn nodded; he could feel it too but was much more accustomed to dealing with odd feelings. "It happens to everyone here. It's because feelings of anger and hostility cannot exist here. They're getting sucked out along with your energy."  
  
Etoh's eyes widened. He was also handling it slightly better. "Of course...the realm of fairies!" He turned to the apparently unaffected Deed. "This is your people's realm, isn't it?"  
  
Deed nodded but continued ahead. "Hurry up!"  
  
Trent frowned, managing to at least distort the feelings enough that they wouldn't impede him too much. "What's happening?"  
  
Slayn continued, keeping the dark elf on pace. "Time travels differently in this realm than it does for ours. If we stay here to long, we could end up dying of old age."  
  
Trent winced. The last thing he needed to see was the group of them shriveling up and dying. He paused as a crossroad seemed to materialize. His eyes widened in shock at the sight of a tall, white-haired man with pointed ears, and eyes he recognized only too well. "Father?!" His breathing quickened as he looked, only to shake his head violently. The image faded away as he continued staring at it. A mirage...  
  
Woodchuck snorted in disgust. What the hell is a smart, self-respecting thief like me doing in here, huh? I'm just gonna get myself killed. He paused as his foot struck something. Looking down, his eyes widened in absolute shock. Falling to his knees, he began sifting the heavy grains of dirt in his hands. "Gold! Gold dust! HAHAHA! I'm rich! Rich! I'm..." His eyes widened a little bit further (hard to believe, ne?) as the dust changed into mud. Looking around, he found that he'd ended up a good thirty yards behind the rest of the party, and a darkness was catching up to him only to quickly. "HEY! WAIT FOR ME!"  
  
Deed stared in horror as the thief charged after him, living branches doing their damnedest to grab him and drag him away. Focusing, she wove a quick spell of shamanism. "Spirit of Light, mother which nourishes plants, come forth and dispels this darkness!"  
  
Wood gasped in relief as the ball of light nullified the spells on the trees, freeing him. Ghim stared at him in mixed scorn and outrage. "What kind of damn fool falls for something as obvious as THAT?!"  
  
"No! You mustn't let your emotions get the better of you!" Deedlit yelled.  
  
The trees frozen only moments before came back to life, lunging for the dwarf. He was a great deal stronger than Woodchuck; he was able to fight much harder, his axe shattering two of the branches that went for his right arm. Still, brute physical power only goes so far when you're fighting spirits or magic.  
  
Ghim froze as an illusion wove itself in front of him. "Le-Leylia?!" The image shifted from the young slip of a girl into a somewhat older woman; still young, but a woman rather than a child. A woman dressed in violet and black, with a bejeweled circlet that seemed to have eyes on her forehead. "NO! Give her back!"  
  
Trent leapt into the air after Ghim, his star-shaped throwing knives severing the branches holding his legs. His extra weight was just enough to break the last grip as the two of them plummeted into some kind of hole.  
  
The two of them landed after a few minutes in another stretch of forest, thankfully without injury. Only moments later, the rest of their party came charging out of the forest, calling their names. It had been neither planned nor particularly lucky, but they had reached the end of the forest much faster than they had planned.  
  
--------  
  
Farther south and east the land became blasted, a waste of what had once been fields and villages. Just as Beld, Ashram, and Karla had long since predicted, the Alanian resistance had been beyond pitiful. What few forts and towns had been deemed worth the trouble were crushed in hours; what had once been soldiers nothing more than spear and saber decorated meat.  
  
Ashram's eyes narrowed as he rode into the fort. He had no magical abilities of any kind; all he relied on were his sword, mind, and brutally honed body. More often than not, this proved sufficient for his purposes. He unsheathed his sword and slashed in a single motion, almost casually bisecting the impaled corpse that had been used as a make-shift weapon against him.  
  
Karla smiled (okay, she nearly always smiles so this is hopefully the last time I mention it) from the battlements. "Was the Alanian resistance less than you expected, Sir Ashram?"  
  
Sheathing the blade, he deigned not to even allow a glimpse. "Mind your own matters. What of the emissary dispatched from Valis?"  
  
"You learned of that far sooner than I expected."  
  
"We of Marmo know that even the tiniest oversight or slip may prove fatal."  
  
Karla laughed as she faded away. "Fear not. I came here only to hear those words from your lips."  
  
Alone, Ashram allowed his disgust to finally show. He assumed she was aware of his dislike, but to reveal it would be undisciplined; THAT, he would not allow. "Damned witch."  
  
--------  
  
Once out of the forest, one could find significantly more hospitable woodlands. Etoh and Slayn had begun trying to bring Ghim around near one of the creeks on the Alania/Valis border. The dwarf waved aside a cold compress as he came to, groaning. "I'll be fine."  
  
Etoh had a concerned look on his face. "What happened to you in the forest?"  
  
Ghim ignored him, his mind elsewhere. "Leylia..."  
  
Trent raised an eyebrow. "Leylia? You called her name back there." He held up a hand as Ghim gave him a slightly dirty look. "Hey, if you want to keep it to yourself, go right ahead. I'm hardly one to start about revealing everything there is about oneself."  
  
"Do you really think he has that right?" Deed asked from the shade of a nearby poplar. "His actions back there nearly killed us all."  
  
Etoh winced at her bluntness. And I thought elves loved to beat around the bush. "Deed."  
  
Ghim sighed. Why did it have to be her? Slayn I wouldn't have minded; Woodchuck I wouldn't have answered, the kid or the other elf don't care... "I'm looking for Leylia, daughter of Neese, the high priestess of Marfa."  
  
Slayn's eyes widened. He'd known something was up from the second Ghim had moseyed into Zaxom to try and drag him somewhere; this however was a bit more than he'd expected. "Neese, the high priestess in Tarba?"  
  
Ghim nodded as the memories began playing through his mind. "Seven years ago, Neese left the shrine to come and care for wounds I'd suffered in a mining accident. Leylia was praying for my well being at the shrine. Then..." he sighed. According to the accounts he'd heard, some...person had come into the shrine, a person who'd seemed to be nearly dead. That was all they knew.  
  
Wood looked up from where he'd been idly sharpening his dagger. "So somebody snatched her, huh?"  
  
Slayn shook his head. "But as the daughter of the high priestess, she would have been trained in arts to protect herself. Who could have kidnapped a trained priestess?"  
  
Further talk was forestalled as a faint rumble like distant thunder came. As it was, Deed and Trent's sharp hearing was the only thing that could hear it over the sudden outpouring of crows from a stretch further out in the forest.  
  
--------  
  
Fireballs surged wildly around a bucking royal carriage drawn by four horses. None hit the carriage itself; they had been very carefully aimed to deal with the knights trying to protect her.  
  
Four died quickly under the brutal mage assault. One rode nearer the carriage in a vain attempt at valor. "Don't fear princess! We knights of the Holy Order will defend you even with our lives!"  
  
Fiana winced as he rode away to try and draw the fire bolts wildly pounding the area. Sinking into her seat, she drew her hands together as she tried to remain calm.  
  
"I wonder, will your prayers reach your god?"  
  
Fiana gasped at the woman's voice. Seated calmly before her was the Grey Witch. "Guards! Someone help!"  
  
"There's no need for that my dear. Nor for your mission. Any resistance from Alania has long since been crushed." Karla's ever-present smile seemed to grow slightly. "Your disappearance would likely move King Fahn to action, would it not?" Karla glanced to the side as her mage senses felt more movement from the few knights she'd originally intended as being able to deliver the message. Oh well. Fiana's disappearance in of itself would have to suffice.  
  
Trent's eyes widened in horror as the last three knights to have survived were pounded by fireballs. He ran towards the only one to have survived. "What the hell happened back there?"  
  
The survivor, if he could be called that, raised his head weakly. "The princess...please protect...the..." Further talk became impossible as he collapsed, dead or unconscious. Trent snarled to himself, ignoring the words of the others about the princess. Grabbing the reins of the one horse that had seemed to survive, he swung into the saddle, charging after the carriage.  
  
"Trent!"  
  
Wood shook his head tiredly. He'd been part of their little group for less than a week now, and he was already getting tired of Trent's bad habit of ignoring help. "Charges into everything, doesn't he?"  
  
Karla sighed in the carriage as she registered the strange dark elf she'd been keeping track of. Strong, head-strong, and principled; he would have been easy to manipulate and worth the time to do so. Still, if there was one thing her long life had taught her, it was that there are always more people when you need them.  
  
The horse whinnied in fear as a trio of fire balls roared towards them. Trent set his feet against the saddle horn, leaning forward past the horse's nose. In one motion, she unsheathed his sword and cut towards the blast. He certainly couldn't defuse it, but he could deflect it easily enough to keep riding.  
  
Slayn grunted in pain as the two blasts that had been untouched roared towards them. Grinding his staff into the ground, he solemnly intoned, "Reveal thy true form and protect our movements through." The blast exploded on impact with his shield, deflecting around far enough to dig a trench in the rock around them.  
  
Trent wheeled his foaming horse to a stop as mist rolled over them. He frowned as he swept the area with elven-sight, the strange ability of his people to spot heat. Two...just one person to take on ten holy knights?  
  
Slayn had by this time managed to catch up. "Trent, wait! There's a mage here, a frighteningly powerful one."  
  
Trent nodded. "Up ahead, on that rock. That's her."  
  
Karla's mental estimations of the elf and his companions went up a few notches. It wasn't every day you came across someone who could deflect fire balls with just steel, nor a mage who could balk any of her spells. Worthy opponents if nothing else.  
  
Trent's eyes narrowed. "Release her now." His hand slid towards his sword as she simply stood there, motionless and speechless. Her eyes abruptly hardened as he touched his hilt, grinding against him. Trent gasped as his weight apparently tripled or so.  
  
Slayn came running forward, only to be subjected to the same treatment. Karla dismissed him after taking a good look at his skill levels; better than decent, but hardly worrisome. "That's far enough."  
  
Trent took a deep, shuddering breath, centering himself. Had she used actual chains or such to hold him down, or piled earth on him to try and weaken him it might have worked. The spell was based purely on her energies however, and THAT he could counter to a degree. Drawing on his reserves, he slowly slid the blade free, bringing it to a forward guard between himself and the witch. "Let. Her. Go."  
  
"Trent!" Deed's hand flashed to her water skin as she hurled it towards her. Bringing her left hand to her forehead, she chanted quickly. "Friend Undine, spirit of water, come to our aid!"  
  
The water burst from the bag, swirling into the form of a small human female speeding towards the witch. It burst on impact with her shield spell, causing little more than a distraction.  
  
Ghim stared as well, though unfortunately for him it was for significantly different reasons. "Le...Leylia?!" Older, yes. Hardened certainly, but there was no mistaking what had once been the slip of a girl who had demanded he play with her, who had demanded he carve dolls for her.  
  
As Trent slowly advanced, Karla quickly assessed her options. She could kill all six of them and take Fiana back to wherever Beld was currently conquering, most likely for a quick (or long) death. No, she had a better idea. All she needed was a full-blown war, and this would serve for now. "Warrior...in tribute to your courage, I award you."  
  
Trent gasped as the spell suddenly cut off, the body of Fiana drifting towards him. He grabbed her before she could drop, passing her off to Slayn and Etoh. Before he could throw a single knife however, a bolt of lightning had struck, taking Karla far away.  
  
--------  
  
Atop the castle of Kannon, Wagnard fumed disgustedly at the sights below him. In what had once been Shining Hill, ogres and goblins ran rampant, destroying and pillaging where they chose, celebrating to cheap wines and ale elsewhere.  
  
This entire war seemed...superfluous. Oh, he agreed with it to a degree; it was the way of existence that the world should belong to the servants of Falaris, greatest of the gods. He supported Beld's conquest of Valis and the rest of Lodoss, but what was the real purpose? In time, they would all die, and like the ancient kingdoms of Kastuul it would die off and be lost in time.  
  
He shook his head, muttering his thoughts aloud. "What purpose is the conquest of Lodoss? In time, all men will turn to dust."  
  
Miles away, an ancient power stirred. Deep beneath Castle Conquera, Narse looked up as he felt the powers of his patron stirring for the first time in eons. Dragon jaws are not made to smile, but he would have if he could as forces older than this world shuddered, finding for the first time in millennia a possible outlet for them. "WHO ARE YOU?"  
  
Wagnard gasped, his mind going far beyond shock. The sheer, raw power behind the voice was like nothing his mind could rap itself around. "Who...who are you?" Surely someone else was hearing this...such raw energy couldn't possibly be ignored.  
  
"WHO ARE YOU?!"  
  
Wagnard bit back a scream as the energies began rippling through him, empowering him like nothing in this world. "This...this power...could it be the ancient goddess who sleeps in our world..." His eyes blazed crimson as they opened. "Kardis...IS THIS KARDIS?!?!?!?!"  
  
to be continued... 


	4. Fantasia, Chapter 04

Chapter Four The Desert King  
  
Pirotess sighed deeply as she cleaned her rapier blade. These humans were outright pathetic; she knew children of her race who could have equaled them. Untrained, amputee children at that. Honestly, what kind of fool goes charging into battle wearing mirror-shiny armor that flashes and makes every archer focus on him? Who screams like a banshee as they run into battle to try and frighten an enemy (that was what the theory was at least. More often than not it was to suppress a certain bladder reaction.)  
  
Like most of the people of Lodoss, she was aware that the two oldest kingdoms of the land had the least skill when it came to warfare. Like the long-since fallen kingdom of Sorcery Kastuul, they focused on mind rather than body. The problem with that was their lack of the magic that had made it work for the people of Kastuul. The end result? Legions of well- respected scholars and sorcerers who were patently useless when a barbarian or soldier came calling.  
  
Looking around what had been yet another of Kannon's fortresses, she once again wondered how these humans managed to survive. Their short life spans made them so hot-headed and irrational, so prone to excess as they strained to squeeze life for what it had to offer. Not like the High Elves, nor like her people. Not like certain coldly efficient assassins...  
  
She winced slightly, shaking her head. What the hell had been so special about that elf? Okay, he wasn't unattractive. Granted, he seemed to have a good head on his shoulders. Um, he also happened to be considered the finest swordsman and warrior her people had produced in the past thousand or so years. Oh yeah, and he was also feared for the fact (and unfortunately not rumor) that he had on around five occasions slipped through supposedly impregnable security and assassinated various high- ranking generals and leaders of the dark elves.  
  
So why had he bothered to save her and her three bodyguards? He supposedly hated his own people with a passion that bordered on insanity. But he'd chosen to help them, four people who had been partners in the conquests that had spurred his other...'removals.'  
  
Pirotess sighed, shaking her head again. She honestly wished she didn't have to bother reconciling these strange feelings. That, or wish that Trent hadn't been someone her duty told her to kill; she would have liked to know what made him the strange creature he was.  
  
--------  
  
Trent was at the moment on his knees before the most powerful monarch in the continent, in a city devoted to the worship of Falis, god of light. Though he personally didn't like the rest of His worshippers, Trent was still a follower of Falaris, god of Darkness.  
  
Which was why he was confused as hell. Oh, he could see himself in this situation, realistically. What he couldn't see was himself in this position without swords at his throat and back and him devoid of any manacles. What he couldn't see was him being thanked as a hero for saving a girl who apparently was the princess of said city devoted to the worship of Light.  
  
"Please, rise to face me." Fahn really would have preferred to do away with this rigmarole of ceremony.  
  
Slayn answered for them as they didn't bother moving. "No majesty, we cannot."  
  
Fahn looked across the six before him, trying to reconcile their motley appearance. That, and wishing he couldn't see the resemblances between them and a group he'd fought with long ago. The tall, frail looking mage. The short, stocky dwarf warrior (which was really easy to find among dwarves.) The young, earnest priest of Falis. The high elf girl. The scruffy looking thief. And lastly, the dark elf assassin/ranger.  
  
"Because of your actions, I have been made fully aware of the situation in our land. More than that, I have been blessed with the safe return of my daughter." His eyes fell on the elf once more. He had never been to close to elves; not out of dislike, they just stayed out of human affairs for the most part. Still, this young man resembled only too well a certain dark elf who had performed a task for him that he hated himself for. "You there, dark elf. What is your full name?"  
  
Trent sighed inwardly. He really hoped no one at court would know about him. "Trent, King Fahn. Trent Shadowlight."  
  
The only sign of recognition proved to be a slight tightening around the eyes. Shadowlight...  
  
--------  
  
Lodoss is set in the south of the world known as Forceria. This means that normal temperature constants of people who live in the north are flipped; its actually colder to the south and warmer in the north. Kind of irritating, really.  
  
In the northwest of Lodoss was the great desert of Fire. The youngest nation on the entire continent made its home their, appropriately enough called Flaim. And as the sun set, three of its riders rode east for Valis.  
  
Two of them were dressed well for the desert; pale, flowing garments of light cloth with turbans protecting their heads. The third one was...not. Around six feet tall and impressively muscular, he had chosen to wear dark gray full plate armor under a dark blue cloak. Not the most intelligent clothing choice where dark clothes and metal absorb crazy amounts of heat in a place positively rife with heat and sunlight.  
  
He turned to the side, spotting three flyers in the north. What could have been birds quickly established themselves to be thirty foot long wyverns.  
  
One of the sensible riders drew a crossbow as they appeared ready to make another pass. "Damned filthy beasts!"  
  
"Hold your fire!" he Kashue, the armor-wearer barked. "Take a closer look."  
  
Said closer look revealing tall, slender men riding on meticulously cut leather saddle set at the base of the necks on each of the wyverns. One specifically sporting long shaggy white hair and mustache despite his youthful face. "Why...it's Prince Jester!"  
  
Jester grinned as he brought his dragon closer to the ground, skimming at just over twenty feet. "I pity your horses, having to run all this way to Valis."  
  
The Kashue smiled at the jibe. "Will you be flying far?"  
  
Jester nodded as he began slowly banking to the side. "To the northern frontier! With Mycen! When next we meet, we'll raise a cup together!" With two or three flaps, the great beast began rising to join the other two outriders.  
  
Kashue leaned forward over his horse's neck. So the kingdom of Moss is on the move as well.  
  
The three rode on for hours, eventually making the transition through desert and bare rock to grassland, and from there to the forests of Valis. As they continued their travel, mist began to rise around them. The fact that it seemed to be keeping pace with their horses was unnoticed by the three.  
  
Abruptly, Kashue's horse shied violently in the mist. The other two riders continued on, something keeping them from noticing the loss of their third.  
  
Kashue frowned as his horse seemed to calm down slightly. Slowly, Karla faded into sight before him. "Greetings, my lord Kashue."  
  
His frown deepened. "Who are you?"  
  
"I am known as Karla."  
  
"Karla?" He allowed himself to relax slightly. If she had intended to kill him, she probably would have done so by now. "And what do you want with me?"  
  
Cue the ever-present smile widening. "Perhaps to give you all of Lodoss?"  
  
"What?" Kashue's eyes narrowed as his hand inched to the broadsword at his side. Only to freeze as the same pressure spell she'd attacked Trent with descended on him. He grunted desperately as he tried to draw the sword regardlessly, but she'd learned from her last encounter; don't give an inch.  
  
Kashue's eyes narrowed as he slammed his spurs into the sides of his horse. The war stallion reared in pain, forelimbs flailing as it walked towards Karla.  
  
She was a sorceress. A powerful, ancient one. That didn't make her immortal. Besides which, a horses hooves are strong enough to crack a human skull like an eggshell; enough to kill HER certainly. Just as quickly as she'd arrived, she vanished.  
  
"LORD KASHUE!!!"  
  
The two outriders came charging back; presumably, they had ignored Kashue's being left behind due to Karla and it had worn off with her leave-taking. "My lord, is everything alright?"  
  
Kashue frowned in thought, for the moment ignoring them. He could have become the ruler of all Lodoss, if that woman's words were true. In other words, she'd offered him nearly unlimited power, and all he'd have to do was betray everyone he knew and respected then get himself saddled with paperwork until he eventually died from either overwork or just his muscles decaying with never being able to move beyond a desk. Yeah. Really tough choice.  
  
"It's nothing," he said calmly as he returned to reality. "Let's go!"  
  
--------  
  
Within castle Roid, Slayn smiled genially as he looked around the milling people. Uncharacteristically, his garments were not his normal dull brown cloak and robe. He'd insisted on a robe, but it was instead a white silk garment, the collar and cuffs golden tablet-weaving.  
  
Etoh grinned as well; at heart he was boy enough to appreciate the mill and bustle. "Quite the party, isn't it?"  
  
"All for their morale, I daresay," Slayn agreed. Then he froze as two late arrivals joined the party.  
  
Conversation didn't stop, but it certainly did lull a bit as the two elves arrived. Deedlit was dressed in a gown that would have been more appropriate for a human princess; carefully fitted and tailored in cream white silk, it gave her pale skin and hair a stunning counterpoint; she looked as though she had been carved of warm, living marble. Her normally free hair had been bound up with a dark green ribbon and small turban-like bundle, forming a single bun.  
  
Trent's outfit was decidedly different, a far cry from normal human clothing. Predictably enough, he had chosen dark clothing colors, though cut in an elfin style. He was wearing loose pants in sapphire blue silk embroidered with silver and black vines, a similar shirt on top. Over that, he was wearing some kind of robe-like garment similar to his normal overcoat, though in the same dark blue as his other clothes. It was sleeve- less however, fastened by amber toggles similar to a Chinese tang.  
  
Deed blushed slightly as she descended the stairs, escorted by the dark elf. "I've never worn anything like this before. Does it suit me?"  
  
Fiana seemed to glow in pleasure at Deed's obvious like of the gift. "You look beautiful." She turned, somewhat disapprovingly towards a certain priest of Falis. "If only I could have gotten dear Etoh here to change as well."  
  
Etoh didn't blush, but he certainly started sputtering. "I...I couldn't! I'm a priest after all!"  
  
Fiana's displeasure turned curious. "Do they really teach you at the temple to never take off your robes?" Cue sycophantic tittering from all within earshot.  
  
Slayn shook his head at the mirth, pausing as he noticed Ghim off by himself on one of the balconies. Like Etoh, he had eschewed any new formal clothing; for the most part he seemed to be eschewing any fun whatsoever.  
  
Trent spared a glance towards Slayn as he headed for his grumbly friend. In all honesty, he would have preferred to be there himself; heck, fighting off carrion worms would have been preferable to all this socializing. If not for the fact that Deed had kind of...taken the decision out of his hands, he would have been there anyway, in his old comfortable clothing.  
  
Slayn frowned as he neared the dwarf. Due to their heavy builds and robust constitutions, it takes a lot more to get a dwarf drunk or buzzed than it would a human or an elf. Despite these difficulties, it seemed to the mage that Ghim was well on his way to a drunken daze followed by a grand-daddy of a hang-over. "Ghim..."  
  
The dwarf stared morosely into the distance. It was her. That damned witch... He shook himself out of his almost numb haze as Slayn touched his shoulder. "Wha? Ah, don't worry about me. I've just had a bit too much to drink."  
  
The party continued on for quite some time, before part of the non-social entertainment began. An old, half-blind minstrel took a seat on a stool in front of the throne, an old lyre in his hands. Trent allowed his eyes to close as the music began. He recognized the song; his mother had often sung it to his younger sisters in elvish years ago. Unbidden but not unwanted, the words twisted themselves into the elvish he remembered.  
  
"Six lights had gathered, evermore known as the Six heroes.  
  
One of them a white-garbed knight, holy sword in his hand. Now the king of Valis; his name was Fahn.  
  
One of them a knight, his heart stolen in the conquest of the demon. The emperor of Marmo, his name was Beld.  
  
One of them a dwarf, final ruler of the Kingdom of Stone. Never to be forgotten, his name was Fleve.  
  
One of them a sorcerer, a fountainhead of knowledge. The great sage of Moss, his name was Wort.  
  
One of them a cleric of Marfa, protector of our motherland. The great northern priestess, her name was Neese.  
  
The final one, a warrior of magic, the only flame which had no name to give..."  
  
The rest of the song was interrupted as two burly men in turbans opened the doors, allowing Kashue to stride forward.  
  
Some of the nonplussed party-goers abruptly regained their good humor as recognition dawned. "It's King Kashue!"  
  
Deed's ears drooped somewhat. "Who's that guy?"  
  
Trent whistled appreciatively. "Kashue Arnague the First. The king of Flaim."  
  
Deed's eyes widened as her ears rose to normal position. The name she recognized, if not the face. "Him?"  
  
Trent nodded. "Yep. The mercenary king who united all the desert tribes of Flaim with nothing but a sword." Privately, he wondered what he was doing here, or rather what he was going to do later; it was kind of obvious he was here for the war going on.  
  
--------  
  
On one of the cliffs surrounding the border, Ashram shook his head in disgust. Before him stretched a long line of forts, all log and mud walls with a handful of towers. "Hmph. So these are the supposedly famous border guards of Valis." Sighing in disgust, he unsheathed his sword, letting the moonlight flash along its edge. An instant later, he shot down the edge on horseback, bellowing in his wake, "ATTACK!"  
  
The men below milled like fire ants disturbed from their nest at the inhuman howling of goblins and ogres. "It's them! The Marmo!"  
  
One of the men leapt to the front to meet the charge. Unlike the others he wore gold-trimmed white plate armor, the mark of one of Valis's holy knights. Drawing his sword, he aimed a might slash towards Ashram at the point of the charge.  
  
Said knight ended up nearly bisected as a slash from Ashram cut through everything on his right side from shoulder to below his ribcage. A second knight was just as quickly bisected below the armpits. Ashram didn't bother after cutting down a third; the knights had been the only ones theoretically capable of harming him, as well as the giving him a decent fight (not really; more wishful thinking on his part.) The remaining soldiers would soon be nothing but meat byproducts after the rest of his force struck.  
  
--------  
  
Silver clattered against silver as Fahn and Kashue toasted the alliance. "May we meet again..." Fahn began.  
  
"...Under Falis's divine protection," Kashue said, finishing the traditional toast.  
  
The formalities finished, the ball continued in earnest. Deed smiled pleasantly to some of the other young women gushing on about how pretty she was; 'that dress looks so good on you,' blah-blah-blah, 'what's that ornament on your head made of,' blah-blah-blah...It was more irritating and tiring than anything else. Having negotiated the social equivalent of the Gauntlet, she smiled as she noticed Trent standing off to the side, away from anyone else.  
  
She glided over to his side, sighing. "It's so tiring, just smiling and laughing and talking about nothing, isn't it."  
  
Trent shrugged absently. "I wouldn't know. So far, I've managed to keep from talking to anyone I don't already know."  
  
Deed frowned at that. It had not been what she'd hoped for. She tried again. "How do humans wear things like this all the time? I can barely move. My normal clothing is much nicer, isn't it?"  
  
Trent absently nodded, still just watching the people sway around for no apparent reason.  
  
At this point, 'frown' is no longer sufficient to describe the expression on Deedlit's face. Angry huff is a bit closer, but still inadequate. "HEY!"  
  
Trent jerked at her yell. Having an elf's hyper-sensitive hearing was not always pleasant. "What?"  
  
Deed was still on the verge of bursting veins at his lack of social grace. Thankfully, she ended up flouncing away in a normal angry huff. "Never mind."  
  
Trent sighed. "I can't do anything if you don't tell me what I did, you know."  
  
--------  
  
Within the barracks, Wood was at the moment laughing hysterically. "Whoo- ha-ha! Sorry boys, looks like its my lucky night."  
  
The various soldiers couldn't help but stare in rather comic dismay as he raked in another armful of their pay. How the devil did he keep getting those triple sixes on the dice? It wasn't possible!  
  
Wood tipped the dice one by one into the cup, swirling them joyously. "Round and round they go, a gamblers fiend or a gambler's fortune..." he paused as one swept coins into his purse in preparation to leave. "Hey, cutting your losses while you're ahead?"  
  
The soldier laughed. "I just realized I shouldn't be here. I need to go make sure the dungeon's in order."  
  
Wood glared balefully at him. "A good, dutiful jailor? Huh, won't miss you any..."  
  
Another called to him as he left, "Oy! Say hi to Naba for me, will ya?"  
  
The jailor nodded. "Sure, while his head's still on good terms with the rest of his body."  
  
Wood blinked at that. He'd been in and out of dungeons most of his adult and a fair amount of his child life. Most people got just time in the dungeon to proverbially 'cool their heels' or maybe a flogging. Decapitation was reserved for the real criminals. "Hey, what did this 'Naba' do?"  
  
"Killed his superior," spoke up one.  
  
A second elaborated. "It's all because he's such a mean drunk. He got so wild that his commander tried to stop him. Beat the poor bastard to death without even realizing it."  
  
Wood's squeegee blink returned, but he shrugged it off. Guy like that, it was probably better he got put down. "Oh well, here we go!" He planted the gambling cup on the table once more, a little too sure in his victory.  
  
The soldiers gasped in outrage as he pulled it off. One of the wooden dice had broken, revealing a lead slug in one side to make sure it always landed as a six. "Why that dirty cheating..."  
  
Wood blanked out the rest of the statement as angry eyes appeared. "Um...uh-oh..."  
  
--------  
  
Within the dungeon, Naba glared morosely around him. He was a hulking brute of a human; he looked to be damn near eight feet tall and probably weighed around four hundred pounds if the paunch and ham muscle was any indication. He didn't particularly look like the shiniest coin in the fountain either, what with his bowl cut and small, piggy little eyes. It wasn't his fault, damn it! So he liked to toss back a few once in a while! So he got a little wild! So he'd accidentally bludgeoned another person into bloody paste! It was that other guys fault! CURSE YOU, CAPTAIN! BECAUSE OF YOU I HAVE SEEN HELL! (1)  
  
His mental rant was cut short as the door to his cell opened. He frowned as he stooped to clear the door. To one side was his jailor, sound asleep. Then he noticed the pretty woman in the black cape in front of him. "Huh?" (sheer genius, isn't he folks?)  
  
Karla smiled. Sometimes, just sometimes, it was far too easy. Thank god for meat-headed goliaths like him. It barely took the tiniest shred of power to properly motivate them for her own little ends.  
  
Naba's already idiotic eyes glazed over as he watched the woman. "Kashue?" Her power flared once more, cutting off any possible other thought (again, far too easily.) "Kashue!"  
  
--------  
  
The unthinking masses, er guests in the throne room continued, totally unaware of what was happening a few dozen feet below them. Deed laughed openly as Fiana attempted roping Etoh into a dance with her. She seemed to be quite taken with the innocent young priest; who knew where that could lead. "I guess they don't teach novices to waltz at the temple of Falis."  
  
She paused as Trent echoed her laughter, her eye once again catching Kashue in his rather barbaric (compared to the other guests) desert garb. At the moment, he was dancing with yet another of the young swooning ladies who seemed so eager to be around him.  
  
Several of said swooning ladies were gushing enthusiastically at his dancing (living vicariously, she supposed). "Ooh, look at King Kashue. As skilled in the dance as he is with a sword."  
  
Deed glared at them for a moment, then decided to show them a bit of elvish grace. Grabbing Trent's hand she began dragging him towards the center of the dance floor. "Come on. We're dancing too."  
  
If he hadn't been dragged like that, he would most likely have face-faulted at that. "What?! But I don't know how to dance!"  
  
Deed didn't even bat an eyelash. "Fine, I'll lead."  
  
Dragging the still vehemently protesting dark elf further, she began easily swirling within the waltz. While no Fred Astaire, Trent knew at the very least enough to put his hands in the relevant spaces; right hand holding her left, his left hand at her waist.  
  
Deed smiled as they began waltzing. "You're not too bad at this."  
  
Trent for the most part was concentrating on several other things; not stepping on her feet, not stepping on the trailing hem of her gown, not touching anything he'd get slapped for, and most importantly of all, not allowing himself to think of how soft and warm she felt in his arms.  
  
That more than anything else.  
  
--------  
  
Deeper in the dungeon, the currently zombified Naba stumped his way up the stairs, a cutlass in hand. He'd killed one guard already, in his escape; not that he noticed. The only person who'd really get his attention was a certain Mercenary King.  
  
Woodchuck winced painfully, hitching at his shoulders and sides. "Bastards. They didn't have to beat me up that badly." He paused as he saw a large, ominous shadow creeping slowly towards the throne room. Spitting to the side, he slipped behind various pillars, tailing the hulk.  
  
-------- In the throne room, Trent proved to be losing the war with his senses. Interestingly, it was the absolutely blissful, mysterious smile on Deed's face that was doing it and not the fact his left hand was inches away from her...  
  
That thought was ruthlessly crushed along with any others along those lines. Though he did have to admit that he wasn't making as much a fool of himself as he'd feared. Not quite anyway. Guess having a natural agility about four times greater than a human's was worth something at times like this.  
  
Kashue knelt to the floor before his dance partner, suavely kissing her hand. The cultured barbarian image was one that he couldn't seem to shake no matter what he tried; may as well play it to the hilt. In the middle of his farewells before letting a new partner hunt him down, Deed managed to accidentally bump into him.  
  
He turned curiously, an apology on his lips to the two elves. It died as curiosity took its place; he'd never met a dark elf, or any kind of elf before. "So, you're the ones who saved the Princess, aren't you?"  
  
Trent shrugged, his badly frazzled nerves thankful for an excuse to let go of her. "It's hardly what you're thinking, I assure you."  
  
Further talk was forestalled by a very nice cliche known as the damsel-in- distress-E# seventh screech. In case you can't guess, yeah. Naba had arrived. Oh, and he was also covered in a guard's blood. Naturally.  
  
To their credit, the knights didn't hesitate for an instant to get between this madman and the King, as did Trent and Kashue. "Protect the king!"  
  
Naba ignored Fahn, staring listlessly at the two before him. "Kashue?" The desert king's eyes tightened at the inquiry. Naba's eyes gleamed insanely as he raised his sword. "KASHUE!!!"  
  
Trent rolled to the opposite side as Kashue dodged, drawing the short dagger he kept on his baldric. Trent was uncomfortably aware of the lack of his katana. Still, like Kashue he felt that going anywhere unarmed was just plain stupid. He slipped his long dagger out from a concealed opening on his shirt's back. He still had his bracers fully loaded with eight throwing blades, but he couldn't be sure of a chance in this crowded room.  
  
"TRENT!" The dark elf spared a glance to the side, finding Woodchuck with a broadsword in his hands. "Catch!"  
  
Trent winced as the sword came whistling towards him, but caught it anyway. Broadswords are generally an ideal weapon; they reach a good balance between weight and strength; perfect if you're a human. For generally weaker elves, it's a bit clumsy.  
  
As Naba drew up his blade for another attack, Trent leapt towards his shoulders, slamming the heavier blade against Naba's raised cutlass. It proved enough for one guard to toss Kashue another blade and make quick work of the deranged guard with a lateral cut.  
  
--------  
  
"OW! Geez, why can't Falis take it easy on me," Woodchuck grumped to himself as Etoh cleaned off some of the bruises left over from his little gambling excursion.  
  
Etoh clucked to him in disapproval. "Falis has more important people to guard right now."  
  
Deed burst into the room, having changed back to her old long tunic and cape. "Trent!" She paused as she took in his lack of a presence.  
  
"He's off sparring with Kashue," Ghim supplied. "The king seems bound and determined to get the kid catalogued or something." Deed's frown was not lost on him.  
  
--------  
  
CLANG!  
  
SHRANG!  
  
VSSSSHRUANG!  
  
Watered steel clanged and slithered against elven as the two sparred back and forth. Kashue sighed impatiently; he'd chosen full armor to complement the sword and round shield he had. Trent hadn't bothered with armor or shield, and was instead sparring with his dagger in the left hand, his katana in the right. "Stop dodging so much! You'll wear yourself out to quickly!"  
  
Trent snorted disdainfully as he evaded yet another slash, though he did give Kashue credit; he was a master swordsman. Not perfect, but certainly good enough to equal Trent. "I'LL get tired? You need to stop putting so much force in blows that don't connect. Learn to strike full force only in the last fraction of a second before you contact a target."  
  
The two continued sparring for around twenty minutes. True to Trent's words, Kashue was the one who gave up first. On the other hand, he HAD been fighting with about sixty pounds more metal than Trent had bothered with.  
  
They both paused as mist seemed to curl through the room as Karla made yet another appearance. "You."  
  
Kashue turned to the elf. "You know her?"  
  
"She's the one who kidnapped Fiana," he supplied. "And then gave her up without a fight to weaker opponents."  
  
Karla somehow laughed without moving her lips. "Did you enjoy my little distraction?"  
  
Kashue glared at her carefully. "That man? So he was your doing..."  
  
Karla eyed the two of them. She'd have to move quickly if at all; Kashue was far too stubborn and pragmatic, and Trent was becoming suspicious of the events around them; he wouldn't take anything she did at face value. "Aid me. We must save Lodoss. Let me be your ally..."  
  
Kashue's glare turned into a frown. Her lack of a specific addressee wasn't lost on him. Just a warmonger, nothing more. He pulled back his arm and hurled the broadsword at her. "Begone, witch!"  
  
The blade froze in midair about two feet away from her. "As you wish. Take care of the path you've chosen..." She laughed openly as the sword reversed itself to lance into the ground at his feet. "...my great mercenary king." Her laughter continued echoing for quite a while after she'd disappeared.  
  
Trent frowned at the space where she had been. "What's her game?"  
  
Kashue shook his head, though he ended up not answering as the wind began rushing outside the window. Rhythmically at that.  
  
The guards gaped in what had to have been a first for Roid, or damn near any place in all of Valis; the sight of a wyvern landing in the middle of the royal courtyard. Jester quickly leapt from the saddle at the base of the winged dragon's neck. "I am Prince Jester of the kingdom of Moss! I must speak with King Fahn immediately!"  
  
In the king's main council room, the various ministers, generals, and monarchs gathered to here Jester's report. Which gave Trent ample time to wonder just why the hell they'd included HIM in this little council of war.  
  
Fahn turned to him. "According to what you've seen, their forces are not limited to humans?"  
  
Well, that does explain a bit. I'm one of the only people who've already been in engagements so far. He ended up just nodding.  
  
Jester aped his gesture. "We can confirm that as well. The northern border has fallen."  
  
Kashue swallowed uncomfortably. "I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news my lord, but there is another concern entirely."  
  
Fahn paused at the mention of Karla. "An ancient witch?"  
  
The loremaster/archmage of Valis nodded. "She is spoken of in the legends of Kastuul, the fallen kingdom of Sorcery."  
  
"So not only ancient, but a legendary witch." Fahn sighed deeply. Honestly, being the king sucked.  
  
The mage continued. "Wort, the sage of Moss may know something of her."  
  
"Wort? He lives far to the northwest. It is a long and dangerous journey to reach him. Who is to go there?"  
  
"I'll go," Trent supplied from the shadows. He got a bit of a perverse thrill from a few of the generals jumping; he liked hiding, and it never failed to make him smile startling people.  
  
Fahn felt an overwhelming sense of deja vu at his...volunteer. "Are you sure that you wish to make this journey?"  
  
Trent destroyed the drama and tension of the moment (quite deliberately, I assure you,) by snorting in disdain. "You honestly think I want to be in the middle of a war camp where I'll most likely end up getting attacked by some twitchy new recruit as a spy? The trip to Wort's tower is going to be a great deal safer for me."  
  
Kashue nodded. The elf was good at fighting; he stood the best chance of making it there and back alive. Not to mention the five others who would probably end up accompanying him.  
  
--------  
  
Beld smiled as he overlooked the hills of Valis's borderlands. The point of his sword thudded into the ground as he rested it there like a walking stick. "Fahn...I haven't forgotten you these past thirty years." An unholy, violet glow began to radiate from the blade, engulfing Beld as it streamed from him as well. "Just as the ground trembles before me, so will you and your beloved Valis. Fahn..."  
  
In the heart of Roid, in Fahn's bedroom no less, a similar reaction was taking place. Set next to the door was the old armor stand that held Fahn's gear from the long ago war against the demon. In its sheath, his Great Sword, Falis's Breath quivered and rattled. Fahn sighed as he neared it. He'd expected as much. Taking the sword into his now abandoned throne room, he slipped it from its sheath as he sat there. Holding it aloft in the moonlight, it glowed a luminous, pearlescent white as though it had been forged from a star, and still retained its cold light.  
  
He let it lay across his lap as his thoughts went towards its opponent, and equal. "Beld..."  
  
(1). Couldn't resist. Sorry, really I am. 


	5. Fantasia, Chapter 05

Chapter Five The Great Tunnel  
  
(Author's Note: Something that you have to understand about literature, stories, and other types of writing is the cliche. Most people think of them as the tools of lazy writers (which I admittedly am), but you really do have to understand; cliches get started because they're true. It's the same with stereotypes; at least to some extent they're true. So understand that I'm not just trying to be funny or lazy when I say...)  
  
...It was a dark and stormy night.  
  
The rain wasn't quite so bad as it might have been, nor was the wind. It was still not the most comfortable place, but the wind, rain, and cold were not the main factor. The lightning was. Almost as though heaven itself was battling, bolts of brilliant, incandescent lightning cracked ominously, splitting trees more often than not.  
  
Near an old ruin carved into the living rock of a cliff face, six travelers approached, all covered from head to foot in hooded rain cloaks. One stood over six in height, another barley topping four. The other four ranged from fix three to five ten in their heights, but any other identifying marks were obscured by their hoods.  
  
One of the shorter of the two reached for the cowl of their hood as though to speak, when the one in the front of them began walking into the ruin. The figure seemed to heave a sigh, but followed.  
  
--------  
  
Within the ruins, the cloaks came off to reveal their owners. "So, this is the Dwarves Great Tunnel, eh?" came Woodchuck's voice.  
  
Slayn nodded. "It must have been home to many a skilled dwarf craftsman," he said as he took in the rich masonry. Hardly a single inch of the pillars and walls had been left unadorned. Everything was covered by rich engravings and sculpture. Near the edges of the tunnel's entrance, the gutters ended in gargoyles resembling Chinese lions, tubes protruding from their mouths.  
  
Ghim, the dwarf, frowned as he approached the walls. Reaching towards the face of a ram carved into a pillar, he idly crushed the brittle rock. Though a dwarf, and a great deal stronger than he looked, crushing the rock when it had been newly made would have been impossible. "That was a long time ago."  
  
Woodchuck frowned comically. "Um, we're not really going through there, are we?"  
  
Slayn smiled. "We have little choice in the matter. This is the fastest way to get to Valis from Wort's tower."  
  
Deedlit frowned as she looked around. "Ew, it smells so moldy down here."  
  
Never one to forego a chance to needle the high elf, Ghim chose to bark back. "Silence! It's bad enough having an elf disgracing the home of my ancestors!"  
  
"I beg your pardon?!"  
  
Etoh ran between them, desperate for damage control. "Ghim! Deed! Stop that!"  
  
Trent rolled his eyes. "War is breaking out. Save the fighting for when we have something to kill."  
  
Deedlit glared back at the dark elf's patronizing voice. Further arguments were forestalled however, as...well, something began happening to the gargoyles adorning the walls. As though they were shaking off old clothes or stretching, the massive, winged stone creatures began to writhe and shift from stone to flesh. The six adventurers gasped as the creatures began diving for them. Swords were produced by the two elves; Ghim's battle-axe came to the ready.  
  
Above them, Woodchuck somehow managed to bend nearly completely in half to dodge the swoop from one of the creatures, only to find one behind him. He frantically ran, only to shudder to a halt as he realized that he only had about fifteen feet of space to run in. He spun to face the aerial charging gargoyle, grabbing its jaw as it knocked him from his perch. In the midair fall, he managed to yank out his dagger and viciously slash open the thing's throat, reducing it back to rocks just after it had served its purpose as a living cushion.  
  
Slayn jerked his crook-shaped mage staff towards a doorway leading deeper into the tunnel. "Get out of here quickly! We're sitting ducks out here!" As the five of them managed to sprint deeper into the catacombs, Slayn braced himself, his staff held in front. His eyes closed as he began to focus, drawing on the power around him  
  
"Source of all power, come to my aid. Let you be guided by my hand against these false ones. You, whose natures have been cloaked, cast off these false garments and reveal your true selves!"  
  
The words held quiet command, their power manifesting. Each word caused the world to shift minutely, bit by bit, until it whipped the air at his feet into a swirling wall of power. The gargoyles swooped towards him, only to bounce off a wall of force, invisible until the moment of impact. As the spell did its work, each gargoyle impacting was reduced to its original stone, and then into rubble.  
  
--------  
  
Deeper in the catacombs, the other six had managed to lose their sense of danger with remarkable speed. Woodchuck tsked sadly as he gazed at the head of a goat-like creature carved from marble. "Man, I could have gotten a good price if this were complete."  
  
Deed...well, 'gushed' is the only appropriate term that comes to mind as she slipped on a large, necklace made from circular plates of hammered and engraved gold. "Oh, it's so beautiful!" She turned to Trent eagerly. "What do you think?"  
  
Trent sweat-dropped at the perky elf-girl. "Um, we kind of don't have time for that Deed."  
  
Etoh shot forward as she began twitching at Trent's casual dismissal. "It suits you! Really!"  
  
"Thank you..."  
  
Ghim turned swiftly back to the entrance; he at least had chosen to remain wary. "Who's there?"  
  
The answer turned out to be the tapping of Slayn's staff as he walked in, slightly winded by his spell. "It's alright." He frowned, shaking his head. "It's almost as though some kind of evil force is spreading across all of Lodoss."  
  
--------  
  
Several days travel to the northeast stood the tower of Wort. An Arch mage, he had played a pivotal role in the fall of the demon almost twenty years ago. Now, he had become a recluse in his tower, pondering the world and the magic around him  
  
An old man, he was no longer the powerful, wise, but headstrong mage who had battled wars and goblins. Shorter now, his long white hair was drawn into a wispy mane trailing down his back. He frowned as a locus of mage energy drifted into his lair, the only visible herald the small wind kicking up enough to begin drifting his pages.  
  
"They say that the march of time spares no one. I have come to wonder if that is true."  
  
Wort frowned as the Grey Witch materialized before him. "Who are you?"  
  
"Was it really so long ago? Have you forgotten the battle in the labyrinth? Your companions the six heroes?" As Wort's eyes widened slightly at the sight of the now chillingly familiar circlet, she continued. "Ah, I see the recognition beginning to dawn. Have you forgotten how you vowed to protect me just before you charged that demon? My dear Wort."  
  
His eyes widened in shock. "But that...you..."  
  
"What is a body? A garment, to be worn and discarded over the ages." Her chilling, echoing laugh only caused his eyes to narrow.  
  
--------  
  
Woodchuck groaned in exasperation as they followed Ghim. "How much longer is this going to take, huh? We've been walking for hours!"  
  
Ghim snorted. "What, you expected a little mining shaft? The size of the Dwarves's Great Tunnel is legendary!"  
  
Deed's walk became a bit closer to a strut as they continued. "Hmph. I suppose it's only natural for this to take forever, what with the dwarf leading us," she calmly stated much to Etoh's amusement.  
  
Woodchuck snorted in turn. "Whatever. Just get us out of here in one piece! I don't fancy losing my head down here."  
  
"Relax kid. This isn't some sorcerer's labyrinth. As long as we keep going forward, we'll eventually reach the end."  
  
As they passed yet another left behind treasure, Deed paused. Imbedded in the rock of the wall was sheathed a long rapier, the hilt worked in rings of gold in ivory, richly detailed in flowers, leaves, and vines; the pommel a dragon's skull. She gasped as she got a closer look at the incredible blade. "How beautiful..."  
  
Ghim froze at her voice, spinning. "NO! DON'T TOUCH IT!"  
  
The elf froze at his bellow. Unfortunately, she'd already touched it (you DID see that coming, right?). Just WHY it was unfortunate became rather apparent as the alcove began sinking into the ground, the blocks of the wall beginning to distend.  
  
Trent shot back towards her, grasping her left hand. "Let go of the damn thing already!"  
  
"I can't! It's stuck!"  
  
Trent ground his teeth as he tried to brace himself. Time had taken its toll on the dwarven masonry however, giving way under his feet and dragging him down the tunnel with her.  
  
"Deed! Trent!"  
  
Woodchuck stared as they started whizzing downward. "Ah, bloody hell..."  
  
--------  
  
Fahn stared impassively into the distance over the battlements of Castle Roid. He hadn't specifically asked for it, but the original architect had added a balcony onto the main throne room. If nothing else, it was nice to simply see the land he ruled. Good for thinking, when you needed it.  
  
He frowned as the memories of perhaps a week ago returned, of his last meeting with the dark elf.  
  
"So, you're leaving?"  
  
Trent nodded quietly. "Wort is the only one who might have any information concerning Karla, and we need all the help we can get. She's much stronger than anything else we might come to face."  
  
Fahn nodded as Trent stood. His eyes widened at the sight of the lacquered black wood of the slightly curved sword slung on his back. "That sword..."  
  
Trent paused, turning back. "This sword is one of two that my father owned before me. He gave me this as something of a coming of age gift fifteen years ago."  
  
"What...was your father's name?"  
  
"...Sirius. Sirius Shadowlight."  
  
Fahn sighed. "Trent...survive." He turned at the sound of steel on marble. "King Kashue."  
  
The mercenary king nodded calmly to his ally. "Thinking of those six?" At the older man's nod, he allowed himself a small grin. "I hate to admit it, but I like the elf. Nothing like one's taught of his race."  
  
Fahn nodded calmly, staring at the ground. "I never in a thousand years thought I might someday meet Kale's son. No...no, that's not true. I think, deep down I knew I'd meet him someday. It was inevitable."  
  
Kashue frowned in thought at the unfamiliar name, his eyes widening in mixed shock and horror as he recognized it. "Kale?!"  
  
Fahn nodded, turning back to look into the west. "I'm old, Kashue. I'm getting older everyday; older and weaker. And yet, I have never felt weaker or more helpless than on the day that man died for me." Ignoring Kashue's reaction to those words, he continued to stare into the distance. "Trent...please return alive."  
  
--------  
  
The dark elf in question was currently groaning as he picked himself up from the ground. He wasn't injured or anything, just kind of sore from the less-than-gentle landing. "You know, maybe we should start listening to Ghim, at least while we're in his people's tunnels."  
  
Deed had the grace to look sheepish. "Um, I suppose you're right. Any idea where we are?"  
  
Trent shook his head. "In the ground deeper than we used to be. Besides that, I haven't the faintest idea."  
  
Deed sighed deeply. Knowing Ghim, she'd never hear the end of this. "Can you shadow-walk us out of here?"  
  
Trent shook his head. "I can get us up to half a mile away from here; that's about the limit of my powers. Problem is, I don't have any idea where the rest of our group will end up. We'll have to find another way out." Looking around, he paused as he kicked some kind of rock. He frowned as he examined it; the curve was far too smooth and uniform to be natural. "What is this? Some kind of mural?"  
  
Deed knelt down to look at it for a moment. "It looks like a part of a much bigger painting. Hang on a moment." Standing, she began to draw power from her surroundings. "Spirit of Light, mother which nourishes plants, come forth and dispels this darkness."  
  
The tiny orb of light formed, then rose into the air. Near the domed apex, it opened, beginning to shine over the image.  
  
Trent stared in rapt wonder at the almost living painting. It showed a huge battlefield, so many people on it that they couldn't even be individualized; hundreds of thousands without a doubt. What made it epic however were the images he recognized as various gods and goddesses of the Forcerian pantheon, alongside hundreds of ancient dragons. "That's..."  
  
Deed nodded. "I've heard the legend. Supposedly, the god Falaris led an army against Falis, the supreme. It's the myth of Lodoss's creation. The gods were so strong that their own power destroyed them."  
  
Trent shook his head. "So much power, and all they could do with it was kill. Some times I wonder what makes gods better than men if they also fight wars."  
  
Deed frowned slightly at him. "Odd sentiments from an assassin, aren't they?"  
  
Trent shrugged helplessly. "I never said I enjoyed war. War is for warriors, not me."  
  
Deed smiled, shaking her head as she strolled past him. "I can't understand you in the least; you're nothing like any of the elves I've ever met. Though, I suppose that's what's attractive." She smiled, spinning around him; incidentally leaving him with the general sensation of being malletted in the back of the head (you know, absolute shock and a loss of coherent thought).  
  
--------  
  
"I call to my staff the power to dispel this darkness."  
  
Woodchuck whistled appreciatively as Slayn's walking stick took on the appearance of a halogen torch. "That's handy."  
  
Slayn nodded. Light spells like this were among the simplest, most common he knew of; a fair amount of adventurers had enough magical know-how to pull it off. "We need to find the others as soon as possible."  
  
Ghim waved it aside, pulling of his glove. "Relax." Sucking a fingertip for a moment then holding it to the breeze, he nodded in satisfaction as he replaced the glove. "One of those two elves will be able to follow the air currents to get back to the exit."  
  
Woodchuck laughed openly. "Didn't expect that from you. You're always harping on about that elf girl, it's a wonder you're being civil at all."  
  
"Shut your hole! Dwarves don't let their dislikes blind them to what a person can do!"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, sure, sure..."  
  
--------  
  
Deed took a deep, even breath. This wasn't too hard, it just took some time. "Maiden Sylph, let your air currents guide us to the surface." As she continued her invocation, the air around her began to blow upwards, sending her cape and hair whipping in a centered breeze around her. "Maiden Sylph, let your air currents guide us to the surface." Fluidly finishing the spell, she leapt off the pedestal she'd chosen to cast from. The spell made her hyper-aware of the ebb and flow of the wind in the tunnels; the air would naturally flow towards the outside. "Thank you, Sylph."  
  
Trent smiled as she touched down.  
  
--------  
  
Wort stared incredulously at her. "You, Karla, also known as the Grey Witch? What are you doing here? What is your purpose?"  
  
Karla's small, chilling smile never wavered. "Do you know of the dragon that is said to guard the gates at the end of the Dwarves Great Tunnel?"  
  
Wort's eyes narrowed suspiciously as power began playing across her circlet.  
  
--------  
  
As Ghim had put it, the size of the Dwarves's great tunnel was legendary. If you didn't stop to rest at any time, you could possibly make it through in a single day; it was easily twenty miles long of masonry.  
  
And unfortunately, it was very, very tall. Tall enough for large, four- legged, fire-breathing reptiles.  
  
Deed gasped as she sensed the magic awakening a great force.  
  
Deeper in the caverns, Slayn also froze. Etoh frowned at the sorcerer in concern. "What is it?"  
  
Trent paused as his danger sense started picking up something BIG. "Deed..."  
  
"Shh!"  
  
The two elves crouched low behind what might have once been a wall or pillar as thundering footsteps began. Very soon, the source of those footsteps chose to reveal itself.  
  
It resembled a cross between a giraffe and a hippo; at least if both animals had scales. The body was squat and heavy, set on four pillar-like limbs. The neck was long and flexible, probably longer than the thick, heavy tail dragging behind it. At the top was the lizard-like head, the skull altered just enough for both eyes to face forward. Oh yeah, and about thirty spikes sticking around the base of the skull.  
  
Trent grimaced at the large creature, his sword make a slithery noise as it left its sheath. "Get out of here, I'll see if I can distract him."  
  
"Don't be an idiot!" Deed snapped, instantly regretting it as the dragon heard her. Heck, you could see it by the way her ears dropped.  
  
Trent shook his head as the things head protruded into the much shorter tunnel they had yet to leave. No time for finesse... As the throat and mouth seemed to bulge, Trent grabbed Deed and dove into one of the remaining shadows. Resolutely ignoring the fact that he was currently 'glomping' a very attractive young girl who had shown interest in him, he re-emerged about forty yards away.  
  
One can assume that Karla had given the dragon a temporary ability to sense a heck of a lot more than you'd expect from such a stupid animal. At least, that was Trent's assumption (he didn't know it was Karla, but it had to be somebody) as the thing almost instantly turned back to face him.  
  
"Come on, quickly!" he barked to Deed. He winced as she was still apparently disoriented. He'd been worried about that; shadow walking tended to give vertigo to anyone who wasn't so used to it that they could do it themselves. Which meant he was stuck with approximate human speed and a hundred extra pounds of elf to carry. Not the best conditions to fight a dragon with.  
  
He still had enough strength and such that he could dodge the dragon for a few minutes, but it didn't last long. Inevitably, his foot caught on a pile of loose rocks. By this time, the dragon was getting pissed off, and had decided to just torch him rather than try to eat him. Wincing, Trent pumped what little energy he had into a defensive spell. Not a whole lot, but hopefully one of them would survive.  
  
Looking up at the dragon's fire streaming to either side of him, he detachedly wondered how THAT was happening. At least until he heard Etoh scream their names. Oh. Slayn's spell, not mine.  
  
Ghim and Woodchuck came charging towards the mage, only to literally skid to a halt as they noticed the several tons of pissed off fire-breathing reptile. "Bloody hell..." (that was Woodchuck, by the way. Ghim very seldom curses.)  
  
Trent leapt over the dragon's tail as it lashed towards the new nuisance, thankfully without Deed in his arms as she'd come to. She was WAY too distracting. The tail swipe ended up slamming into the other four to different degrees; stunning the dwarf for a second, knocking the priest and thief off their feet, and KO-ing Slayn. Woodchuck glared at the creature. "God damn it, that thing's gonna EAT us whole."  
  
Ghim's hands tightened on his axe as Trent began baiting the dragon. "Guess that means we'll just have to eat it first, doesn't it."  
  
Okay, time for Dragonslaying 101. There are four types of dragons on Lodoss; Wyverns, Thunder Dragons, Great Dragons, and Ancient Dragons. Wyverns are the flying dragons the knights of Moss ride on, while Great Dragons generally keep to themselves in the wilds of untamed Lodoss. Ancient Dragons average between two and four hundred meters in length with the mass of a World War two Frigate; not much you can do against them unless you're another equally big dragon, a mage capable of incinerating cities on a whim, or one of two hundred thousand or so soldiers with catapults and ballista.  
  
Fortunately, the dragon we're dealing with is a Thunder Dragon. Big, strong, slow, and dumb. You see, the problem with these behemoths is that not much can hurt them. Unlike say a porcupine, their underbellies aren't all that much softer than their upper bodies; both are covered in scales that have the general consistency of shield metal. You can cut it, but not very easily.  
  
As such, you have to go for one of two vulnerable spots; you can stab or slash the large arteries at the base of the jaw, or ram a sword (a spear is actually better) into the eye and try to pierce the brain. Which is actually harder, given that you're trying to hit a melon-sized object in a skull the size of a hogshead barrel. Neither one is particularly easy.  
  
And after this brief and mostly useless educational moment, we return you to the previous carnage.  
  
Trent winced as he dodged. There wasn't actually a class called 'Dragonslaying 101,' but dear old dad had taught him what to do if this happened. Ideally, that meant running away, but it wasn't an option here. SOOOOO, he had to kill it. Which was more a matter of patience, dodging, and luck than actual sword skill. Oh, allies to keep it distracted help too.  
  
Deed gasped as he dodged a near-miss of the jaws. Turning to the dwarf she glared at him. "What are you doing there?! Go help him!"  
  
Ghim didn't take his eyes off the dragon. "Silence! A dwarf fights by his own customs."  
  
Just before Deed decided 'to hell with it' and charged, Ghim leapt down and beat her to it. He'd timed it almost perfectly; he reached the dragon just as it had tried to eat Trent for what must have been the seventh time in the past minute or two. Leaping into the air, he brought the axe down in the snout of the dragon. Not much flesh or nerve tissue to damage, but enough to get the dragon REALLY pissed off (no, I had no crocodile hunter pun intended).  
  
The end result of that particular attack? A two hundred pound dwarf 'Whoa'ing around as it was shaken like a rat being shaken by a dog. At least until the axe was dislodged. Having dealt with that particular annoyance, the dragon paused just long enough for Wood to take aim and plant one of his daggers into its eye. Unlike Ghim's attack, Wood's hurt like hell.  
  
Trent grinned tightly as the dragon reared back completely, his throat exposed. Leaping upward, his katana made a neat crescent-moon slash, severing both artery and vein in one blow. Landing he gestured for the exit. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here!" The other five were only too happy to oblige.  
  
Etoh grinned in relief as they finally reached sunshine. "We made it!"  
  
--------  
  
Wort seemed genuinely amused at the sight in his crystal ball of the six of them making it out none the worse for wear. "The danger has been successfully passed, just as I told you it would be. Now what?"  
  
Despite her failure, Karla didn't seem terribly unhappy. "Let us wait. The game has yet to finish."  
  
Wort shrugged, turning back to his massive spell book. "As you wish. I've nothing else that needs to be done for quite a while."  
  
A faraway look entered Karla's eyes as she gazed into the crystal. "That the scales of Fate shall balance history...that is all that I desire."  
  
to be continued... 


	6. Fantasia, Chapter 06

Chapter Six The Sword of the Dark Emperor  
  
It has been said more than once that War is a ravening beast; that it devours everything in its path and spares none. That war is a flame, which can be controlled by great precautions but if unchecked and unwatched can rage out of control in ways that are nearly unimaginable. Unfortunately, this is true more often than not.  
  
The few Alanian forts that had stood in the way of Beld's advance had been torched and shattered; Kannon's forces long since put to flight. Three nations remained that would oppose the Marmo; the Holy Kingdom of Valis, the Desert Kingdom of Flaim, and the Dragon's Kingdom of Moss. Valis stood between the war machine and the other two; it was forced to bear the brunt of the attacks.  
  
The holy knights of Valis are among the strongest, most respected and feared warriors of their world. This is not due simply to their having a lot of money or something so mundane; most of them earn these distinctions through their skill and long years of training. They simply are that good. Even then, there are limits as to how far a warrior can go on simply skill.  
  
While strong, those warriors who stood against the forces of Marmo were overwhelmed quickly by sheer numbers; what can one man do when besieged by dozens? Most who fought, fought bravely and well, and died from a sword or spear rammed through their back. Ogres, goblins, kobolds; all of them attacked, and hardly any were lost in their rampage across Lodoss.  
  
Beld smiled grimly as the walls of the fortress shattered under a blow from Soul Crusher. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had an excuse to unleash its demonic power. He'd forgotten how much fun it was. Lowering the great sword, he gestured forward into the fiery hell that the place was turning into. "Go, Ashram."  
  
The black knight simply nodded, then charged into the inferno, cavalry flanking him. Beld had little concern over how he did; he knew Ashram quite well, and knew he was a deadly warrior. Truth be told, he was probably deadlier than Beld himself if not for Soul Crusher.  
  
The emperor watched the fire detachedly. "Crushing this place will force Fahn to come to me, face-to-face." His grin widened. Oh, he would relish that meeting.  
  
One of the soldiers of Valis, braver or dumber (or both) than the rest, leapt from one of the battlements a good forty feet up, screaming his battle cry as he brought his broadsword down towards the hulking figure of the emperor.  
  
Beld raised his sword casually, unleashing a pulse of demonic energy. The spherical burst sent the soldier flying, for all that he stood back up readily enough. "Well, so some of you are actually surviving? Can't have that, now can we."  
  
"Damn you monsters..." The knight charged Beld on foot, his sword above his head. He didn't make it far.  
  
Beld carelessly impaled him, disdainfully letting his corpse hit the tarmac. "Soon...soon you will meet your true enemy," he whispered to the unholy blade as it began to sullenly glow violet, shaking lightly in his hand.  
  
Miles away, in the throne room of Castle Roid, Fahn stared as the glow surrounding his sword the Breath of Falis began to intensify as it called its answer to Beld's Soul Crusher. He was drawing closer; it was only a matter of time before the two who had long ago fought to save Lodoss from war would fight to decide its fate. "Beld..."  
  
--------  
  
Trent stared, oddly detached from the horror in front of him. He could remember the sights of Fortress Myce after its destruction, but this...this was far worse.  
  
The burnt out remains of the village mingled with rubble from retaining walls and barns in the failing light, corpses strewn over the ground. Trent crouched down, seemingly to get a better look but more because he didn't feel the strength to stand. He remembered too much; he'd seen burnt and dying corpses in raids one time too many.  
  
He frowned, his head jerking to the side as he heard groaning. Darting toward the noise, he heaved a flat rock off a man who was quickly moving towards becoming a corpse. "Hey...hang on, okay?"  
  
The man's eyes opened weakly at the dark elf's voice, then closed as slowly. Trent sighed, letting his head fall back to the earth. "Men kill men. Men kill elves, kill goblins, kill ogres. Elves kill, kobolds kill...it never ends, does it."  
  
Deed put a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Perhaps. War doesn't care about people or status. It devours everything in its path." She gave him a small hug from behind. "All we can do is try to pull its fangs." Trent wordlessly squeezed her hand; he could use the comfort.  
  
"Trent!" Slayn bellowed after the dark elf. "Get back to Valis and make your report! Etoh and I will stay here to help who we can."  
  
Trent frowned. "Sorry, but I wouldn't feel right about just abandoning them all. I don't have your spells or Etoh's power, but I at least know..."  
  
Suffice to say that Deed would have none of that. "Right! We'll get back to Valis as soon as possible." She turned around to Trent, her face shooting to within six inches of his. "Isn't that right?"  
  
Trent coughed lightly (after backing far enough away to make it polite). He'd been told more than once that he was quite intelligent for his race, though his common sense suffered somewhat. Even so, he was at least old enough to know better than to try and talk down the female of ANY species with a head of steam (and it only took him one hundred and thirty two years.) "Right."  
  
Woodchuck shook his head in disgust at the departing elves as they swung into the saddle. Disgust turned to agitation as they sped off. "HEY! Wait for me!"  
  
Slayn chuckled lightly as they left, then turned back to the people around him. A mage's ability to heal combined with slightly more availability than your average priest was what made them so popular. If nothing else, he could help.  
  
--------  
  
Pirotess gazed calmly into the large fires of the Marmo forces current encampment. It took a bit of self-control to continue with thinking as opposed to watching the oddly gyrating (and thoroughly drunk, she assumed) goblins dancing around while other thoroughly drunk goblins leaned back and laughed at their antics.  
  
Damn it, get out of my head! she thought to herself fiercely as a white- haired visage crossed her mind for the umpteenth time. She grimaced mentally, not letting the expression reach her face. That stupid assassin just had to save her that one time; he just had to intrigue her and spark her curiosity. He just had to prove himself as something other than one of the spineless, arrogant, simpering dark elf males that kept hitting on her who she rather openly despised.  
  
She would have to hunt him down in the near future just to get to know him enough to decide whether or not she should be thinking about him this much. As it was, her head was starting to hurt, and her priorities were rather distorted.  
  
She paused in her thoughts as some human fighter with a livid scar across the bridge of his nose smiled lecherously and began approaching. Oh, Clarol had interposed himself.  
  
And she really could have used a nice target too.  
  
--------  
  
Ashram gazed purposely across the map imbedded in Beld's campaign table. "An advance party under Kashue's command has been dispatched from Valis." A dagger thudded into the wood of the table, for all that Ashram didn't seem to move when he threw it. "We'll probably meet up somewhere around this area."  
  
Beld leaned slightly forward from his careless sprawl on a campaign seat. He hated Fahn, but he respected him enough to know better than to misjudge his capabilities. And one thing he had was a powerful army. "Ashram...join your forces with the elves and try to circle around their forces."  
  
The black-clad knight frowned. "A sneak attack, my lord?"  
  
Beld shook his head. "If we don't change our tactics, we'll end up in our graves." He raised a hand at the slight setting of Ashram's jaw. He was so controlled you damn near needed a doctorate in psychology and body language to figure out what he was thinking. "Don't think of our losses until now as a sacrifice. They're a shield, just as you will be if you die in combat."  
  
Ashram allowed himself a grin. "As you may be yourself."  
  
Beld grinned, gruffly chuckling. Oh, it was nice to have a few underlings who weren't terrified sycophants; they kept things interesting. Both he and his greatest general paused at the sound of a scuffle outside the tent.  
  
The scarred soldier shook his head, blinking repeatedly as he drew himself up from the ground. "Son of a..."  
  
Clarol gazed at him contemptuously. How dare this human trash even think about such things. "Pirotess is one of the greatest of the dark elf women," he said calmly. "She is not one to dally with human men."  
  
The soldier drew himself to his feet, glaring at the elf. "What? You think that humans aren't good enough?"  
  
Clarol cocked his head to the side at the precise angle for insult. "What, do you think that you're our betters?"  
  
Broadsword cleared its sheath. "You...you son of a bitch!" He started huffing and bellowing as he swung at the elf. Clarol ignored and dodged the strikes with a calculated ease, specifically intended to insult. He spun past one particularly vicious lunge, and planting his foot in the man's backside sent him to his knees. The soldier lunged back to his feet for another attack, but the dark elf had had enough. Rapier in hand, he disarmed him with a quick riposte.  
  
The human fell to his knees as Clarol raised his sword. "Now, you DIE!" He winced as the sword began its down stroke, only to clang off a dagger blade. Clarol drew back as Ashram interposed himself. Sure he was a human, but the black knight was a hell of a lot more dangerous than he was himself.  
  
"Captain!" The soldier crowed. Glaring at the dark elf, he sneered, "think you can just screw with us humans?"  
  
Ashram didn't bother to look as the pommel of his dagger slammed into the soldier's jaw, sending him through a neat grande pirouette before he once again fell to his backside. Ashram glared coldly at the idiot. "Know this. Those who don't know their places don't last long on Marmo. Am I perfectly clear?"  
  
The soldier winced as he checked his teeth. "Yeth thir."  
  
Pirotess turned away from them both as she returned to thought. Humans were a strange race, weren't they.  
  
--------  
  
Back in Roid, Fahn smiled pleasantly at Trent (I'm pretty sure he did; its hard to tell through all that beard). "So, you've made it back safely. What have you learned of the witch Karla?"  
  
Trent stood up, formalities having been fulfilled. "Wort seemed to know a good deal about her. According to him, we were right to think she was alive during the age of Sorcery, a survivor of Kastuul." His eyes went further away. "Her sole purpose he says, is to 'balance the scales of history,' to ensure that power doesn't ever grow too concentrated. For her methods, King and Thrall alike are her pawns."  
  
Fahn sighed thoughtfully at the statement. "'Pawns of history...' aren't we all."  
  
Kashue strode into the room. "Well, you survived your trials, did you?" Any note of forced joviality was well hidden. "Looks like you're still all in one piece, eh?"  
  
Deed interposed herself between Trent and the King who seemed intent on giving him a bear hug. "You keep this up, 'your majesty,' and he'll BREAK before he has a chance to fight this war."  
  
Fahn bit his lip, grateful for his screen of hair. It would have been unseemly after all to start laughing at the nonplussed Mercenary King. Getting himself under control, he looked back at Trent. "Please, take a look to the side."  
  
Trent shrugged nonchalantly at the display stand there. "I was wondering why that was there. Who's to be knighted?"  
  
Erected on the stand was a set of half-plate armor, all gleaming, mirror- polished steel. Silver and faint lace-work gold glittered along edges, a cruciform imbedded in the chest of the breastplate. Shoulder guards and greaves finished it out, while a sword and shield leaned against the right leg. The last piece proved to be a long, crimson cloak with a golden cross on the back, slung over the left shoulder.  
  
Fahn smiled at him, this time openly. "It is to be yours. If you wish to, I would be honored if you would fight beside me as a Holy Knight of Valis."  
  
Dead. Silence.  
  
Trent froze at that. He'd been appraising the armor and sword, and it was certainly top quality. Not quite what a king would wear, but no knight would ever expect that. Still, a Holy Knight of Valis?! For god's sake, he was a dark elf! He may not follow the Marmo, but he still owed his religious loyalty to Falaris, God of Night and Darkness; he couldn't very well go prancing around in the armor of his God's opposite!  
  
Trent took a deep breath, steadying himself before he answered. "Your majesty, this is an...honor, that I would never presume to expect of you. However, while I ride to fight beside you, I wish to do it simply as who I am; Trent Shadowlight, a dark elf. To be a holy knight is one thing I would never allow myself to consider."  
  
(Sighs of relief.)  
  
Fahn nodded. He hadn't really expected him to accept, but the gesture had to be extended.  
  
Outside, Trent and Deed watched from the battlements as Kashue rode off at the head of a large group of his country's light cavalry. Abruptly, they leapt to the side as a throwing dagger managed to imbed itself into the flagstones at their feet. "Who's there?!"  
  
Woodchuck laughed quietly as he stepped from behind the turrets. Deed gaped at him in indignant shock. "Woodchuck?!" She glared at him, the shock fading away. "If this is some kind of joke, it's in very poor taste!"  
  
"Hey, there, don't worry so much. Just seeing what you two can do. This will be your first war, won't it?"  
  
Trent shook his head. "Don't worry so much. I can handle myself quite well."  
  
"No matter how many people you might have to kill?" he asked, his eyes glinting. "After all, once you're on the battlefield, you'll most likely forget all the suffering we saw on the way here. If you can't, you'll be in trouble, cause you won't be able to kill." He turned to stride away. "Helluva choice, isn't it?"  
  
Trent laughed humorlessly, momentarily stopping both of them. "You think I'm going to be a bleeding heart? I haven't the slightest problem killing the people who want me dead."  
  
Deed stared in shock at the dark elf. For the first time since she'd met him, he was behaving like everything she'd been told dark elves were.  
  
--------  
  
Etoh sighed tiredly as he fed more energy towards one of the less severely wounded villagers. They'd been at this for hours now; Slayn's magic and his cleric's power trying to keep these people alive, and it was getting exhausting. At least no one else has died here, he thought tiredly. He paused as he stopped, frowning. He couldn't recall any stop to the energies; when he paused, Slayn was always healing someone else. So why had everything in the energy planes gone 'quiet?' "Slayn?"  
  
The mage in question was leaning back against a wall, resting as he waited. It didn't take long for his target to arrive. "Where are you going?"  
  
Ghim froze. He'd hoped that no one would notice his staying despite his rather apparent lack of healing skills. Then he'd hoped that Slayn and Etoh would be too busy healing all the people to notice when he took off. Wishful thinking, it seemed.  
  
Slayn rose slowly. "Do you intend to face her yourself?" He could remember Ghim calling Karla Leylia; he could only assume that whatever Karla was, her body was that of the missing priestess. When you're a mage, you get used to such strange things happening.  
  
Ghim winced silently to himself as memories returned. Not of the young girl he'd known, but of the witch, the words he'd heard in his mind when he'd spoken her true name.  
  
"Leylia? Yes, I believe that was what this body was called long ago. Now? Now Karla is all that is left."  
  
"I can't just leave her! I have to do something, damn it!"  
  
Slayn knelt before him, crouching to eye-level. "When the time comes for you to face her, you'll face her with us as well." His hand rose.  
  
"Slayn, what are you..."  
  
Further speech was useless as a faint pulse of mage energy struck Ghim, sending him deeply into sleep.  
  
"Slayn!"  
  
He turned to Etoh as he ran up. "Don't worry. He'll be fine, and he needs his rest." Slayn's eyes turned far away, to the battlefields that would soon erupt across Valis. "We'll all need everything we have to survive this."  
  
--------  
  
Trent frowned to himself as he entered Fahn's throne room. For someone who has no rank whatsoever, I seem to be spending an awful lot of time in the presence of royalty. Spying the old king, he jogged over. "You wished to speak to me your highness?"  
  
Fahn turned slightly, his expression as unreadable as ever. "The main force of Valis will be departing tomorrow."  
  
Trent nodded. "I'll be accompanying you. I believe that Woodchuck and Deed may come as well."  
  
Fahn sighed. "I don't think I'm going to come back from this alive."  
  
Trent paused as the situation turned serious. After a time of silence, he spoke. "Do you want me to say something like, 'don't think that way, I know you'll come back?' I hope not. Several thousand men are going to die tomorrow; you're just as likely to die in battle as are the nameless foot soldiers."  
  
Fahn nodded. He hadn't expected any comforting lies from him. He preferred his blatant honesty. More to the point, he needed it. "Will you listen to an old story?"  
  
Trent blinked in confusion. "Old story?"  
  
"Of when Valis was not nearly so stable a nation as it is today. Nearly thirty years ago, I and the holy knights were attempting to unify all of Lodoss."  
  
Trent froze. Karla's words... "Unification of all Lodoss?"  
  
Fahn sighed deeply. "I didn't want to do it by force, so I made many treaties and pacts instead. But then..." He paused, his voice involuntarily choking up. "A tribe in what would later become the kingdom of Flaim came to the city. They were being harassed by Shooting Star, the Ancient demon dragon of Fire Dragon Mountain. They...they demanded my daughter Fiana as a sacrifice to try and placate it."  
  
Trent froze in horror. He knew the desert people were ruthless; otherwise you didn't survive that hellish wasteland. But this... "What did you do?"  
  
Fahn sighed. "I tore up the treaty then and there. I refused, and they threatened war. That's when your father came in."  
  
Trent froze again, this time in absolute, total shock. "You. Knew. My. Father?"  
  
Fahn nodded. "What most of my knights considered an unpleasant aspect of our kingdom; Kale served me as a scout and spy who was second to none. He whispered something from behind the throne; I thought at first he'd gone mad." Fahn swallowed as his throat went dry. Dulled by decades, and it still made him nervous. "He told me that he would deal with Shooting Star himself, so I would have no reason to break the treaty. I chose to destroy it from then on; I allowed him to go, but the pact had been severed between myself and that tribe."  
  
Trent breathed very shallowly, seeming to have gone dead. This? This was something he'd never imagined, something he'd never have dared to consider. "What happened then?"  
  
Fahn's head dropped, his eyes closing. "Reports later indicated that there was some kind of battle in the depths of the volcano Shooting Star laired in. We're not sure what happened, but we do know two things. Kale died in battle against the Demon Dragon, but in doing so he somehow managed to harm that behemoth so greatly that to this day it has not attacked the people of Lodoss." Fahn turned ponderously to Trent, every year making itself known. "In short, my kingdom, my daughter, and for a great time the peace of Lodoss was due to one outcast dark elf willing to die for me."  
  
Trent stared, his surroundings no longer registering. He remembered that day, the last time he saw his father. The sight of him striding away, the memory of that sad smile; and more importantly, the sword he'd been given. "Father..."  
  
Fahn walked away, but spoke nonetheless. "I was powerless. That is not a comforting thing for anyone to feel, a monarch especially. I...have never cursed being King so loudly as I did when I learned of his death."  
  
Trent ignored the words. He knew Fahn was telling the truth; the politician in Fahn had disappeared as he let his emotions free for what could have been the first time in decades. It didn't really make him feel any better though.  
  
Somehow or another, Trent ended up on one of Roid's battlements, deep in thought. At least, that was where Deedlit found him.  
  
Smiling, she skipped across the stones toward the brooding dark elf. She didn't stop until her face was within a foot of his. "Found you." Spinning twice, she unslung a lute from her back, jumping lightly to sit on one of the mahicolations. Smiling at him, she began strumming an odd song, elvish in its haunting tones.  
  
He stared at her as she played. For the first time since he'd met her, he allowed himself to realize just how beautiful she was. He was used to human women, and he found many attractive. Her? She was something else entirely. With the moonlight glinting from almost white hair, almost white skin, she seemed to be some kind of star sprite come down to earth. It was an uncomfortable realization, but he cared for her. "Deed?"  
  
"Hmmm?"  
  
"I want you to stay out of the battle tomorrow."  
  
The music froze as she opened her eyes, not looking in his direction. Calmly, she waited for him.  
  
"Deed..."  
  
"No."  
  
His eyes narrowed in slight anger. "You have no idea whether or not you'll survive tomorrow."  
  
She spun to face him, her own ire clear. "Then why are you going?"  
  
Trent snorted in disgust. "I saw the way you looked at me in Fortress Myce. You know what I am. An assassin. A cold-blooded killer. It's my job to kill and die. That's why I'm willing to fight in this insane battle."  
  
Deed smiled at him. He'd asked because he cared, and he probably didn't realize what he'd left unsaid. "Then I'll guard your back for you. There are hundreds of people who'd want to stab you from behind."  
  
Trent stared at her as she resumed her playing. "Why won't you ever do what I ask?"  
  
"Because if I did, you'd always be alone," she answered succinctly.  
  
--------  
  
Farther away, Ashram's advance forces had paused. The black knight turned, nodding to Clarol. The dark elf turned and charged ahead, eager for the glory that would soon be his.  
  
Ashram paused as that dark elf woman knelt before him. "I wish to accompany you on this."  
  
He shrugged if off, and spun his horse to follow behind Clarol's ambush party. She would do what she liked; he knew that much.  
  
Pirotess smiled. Clarol would not be the only one to gain glory and honor from this.  
  
Watching from atop nearby mountains, Wagnard grinned insanely at the soon to be battlefield, an unholy crimson light flaring around him. "Soon, Kardis. Soon this battlefield will run crimson with the blood of thousands." He began cackling to himself. "It will be the greatest of all sacrifices to you!"  
  
Deep in Marmo, Narse stirred restlessly. For weeks, the black dragon had felt the powers of his goddess. Many things was he, but patient was not one of them. He wanted to fly, to hunt, to sink his fangs into the last of the dragons and prove his own power. He wanted BLOOD.  
  
Beld slammed the point of his great sword into the ground, feeling it reconnect him to the land he ruled as Emperor. He frowned at Narse's restlessness. "What troubles you? Rest Narse. Your strength is not needed."  
  
The black dragon reluctantly subsided. Kardis had chosen this man to wield the demon's sword. This man was his master, at least for now.  
  
Beld withdrew and sheathed his sword, troubled. "Who? Who would dare to call on Narse?" He felt a shock run through him. "Could it be..." He knew of powers greater than his or the Demon dragon's; could this be one?  
  
--------  
  
Kashue grimaced as he stared around himself. This blasted mist and humidity was less than comfortable for a ruler of the desert of fire, and it would make the battle...more difficult.  
  
One of his knights rode forward, equally troubled. "We have heard nothing from our advance scouts, my lord. What may have happened to them?" He paused as a shape began to resolve itself in the mist. "Who goes there?"  
  
"It's one of the scouts!"  
  
Kashue watched with narrowed eyes as the scout staggered past him, badly wounded by both sword and arrow. The scout paused a few feet behind the desert king. Abruptly, his face spasmed, his eyes glowing as fangs sprouted and energy erupted in him. He snatched his sword free and turned to charge the king.  
  
Three seconds later, he fell as Kashue's sword rammed itself through his heart.  
  
The mercenary king shook his head in disgust. Fahn was a much better trainer than that. "Using our own troops against us?"  
  
Deeper in the mist, an eerie howling and clattering growls could be heard. He took a deep breath, readying himself for the inevitable battle.  
  
"HERE THEY COME!"  
  
Kashue charged, knights at his back into the teeming masses of goblins and humans. "STAND FIRM! THEY'RE NO BETTER THAN ANIMALS! SCOWL! SHOUT! THREATEN!"  
  
He winced as he charged an ogre wielding a battle scythe. They were outnumbered severely. He could only pray that they would last long enough for Fahn's party to make a difference later in the day.  
  
For now, all he could do was kill. 


	7. Fantasia, Chapter 07

Chapter Seven The War of Heroes  
  
Woodchuck sighed blissfully from atop his beige gelding. Here he was, a worthless if self-respecting thief, and he was riding into a battle at the head of the column of the strongest army in the entire continent. His belly was full, he was getting great pay, and he was a hero for saving their princess.  
  
He didn't know what he'd done to make the gods pay up this big, but he wished he could figure out how to keep it coming.  
  
"At the head of the column, in the center of the strongest knights," he quipped. "Doesn't get any better than this."  
  
Deed laughed good-naturedly at him. "I wouldn't be so happy if I were you, Woodchuck. In a battle, this would be the first place the enemy would aim for."  
  
Wood glared at her without too much rancor. "YOU certainly seem confident in yourself."  
  
Deed smiled smugly. "It's very basic tactics."  
  
"Yeah, yeah..."  
  
Trent chuckled. They were riding into a godforsaken war zone, and those two were laughing and sniping at each other. What next?  
  
Fahn frowned as the sound of hooves thudding against the ground alerted him. He didn't relax, despite the rider appearing to be one of his own scouts. "What news from the front?"  
  
Trent groaned to himself as the scout insisted on leaping from his horse to properly prostrate himself before his king. This was war for crying out loud; a little etiquette could be sacrificed.  
  
"My lord, King Kashue's forces have come under an attack by non-humans and are in danger of being overwhelmed!"  
  
Fahn's eyes narrowed as he clenched the reins. "Damn you Beld, using these monsters..."  
  
Trent grimaced as the order was given for them to move out. "Any idea how many goblins and such actually live on Marmo?"  
  
Deed winced. "They're being used as cannon fodder. There could be thousands of them for all we know; TENS of thousands."  
  
Trent urged his horse into a slightly faster clip. Trent had to leave now. The generally quiet and distant dark elf would have little place on the battlefield. The Assassin was needed.  
  
--------  
  
"HERE THEY COME!!!!!!!"  
  
Kashue snarled openly as another wave of cannon fodder swarmed towards them. His own warriors were doing well, having managed to kill far more than they had lost, but they'd originally been intended as a scout force to make tactical choices. They could fight, and they would, but they simply did not have any chance of winning on their own. They needed support, preferably yesterday.  
  
"STAND FIRM!" the desert king bellowed. "THEY'RE NO BETTER THAN ANIMALS! SCOWL! SHOUT! THREATEN!"  
  
He'd already racked up an impressive kill ratio, as he bisected a kobold. Unfortunately, a big part of a melee battle is that what kills you isn't lack of skill, or weakness, or anything else. More often than not, its just that you can't defend against everything forever.  
  
Clarol smiled as he charged Kashue, as quietly as he could. Killing monarchs generally got one a promotion. Showing remarkable restraint considering how hot-headed he was, he managed to bellow his war cry only at the last minute.  
  
Kashue spun at the shout as the elf brought his rapier downward.  
  
And fell, a heavy javelin sprouting out of his chest.  
  
Above, Jester shook his head from atop his white wyvern. "So even the great mercenary king lacks eyes in the back of his head, eh?"  
  
Kashue smiled in relief. Not only did the knights of Moss have training rivaling that of his own knights or Fahn's, the wyverns they rode tended to attract a lot of attention away from the rest of the fighting.  
  
Jester wheeled and dove his mount, sending it skimming the ground low enough that its talons were able to slice up dozens of soldiers in a single pass.  
  
Oh yes, dragon troops were GREAT.  
  
Miles away, Karla smiled as the battle raged in her crystal ball. It wouldn't be long; soon she'd be ready to end this silly war. All she need do was wait.  
  
--------  
  
Above the battle, Ashram's forces waited on the cliff tops.  
  
One of the soldiers frowned. "My lord, our scouts report that the main force is drawing near. If we let them join up, we'll be at an even worse disadvantage."  
  
Ashram ignored him for the most part, marking out the little knots of resistance where the better fighters were making a more credible stand. "Our duty is to ensure our prey is in the jaws of the trap and incapable of escape. We will do nothing until then."  
  
Below, Trent winced as he found Kashue. He was in quite good shape; a few dings in the armor, but it didn't even look as though he was wounded. "Hey, what's going on?"  
  
Kashue's frown matched Trent's. The battle had abruptly slackened off once Fahn's main forces had arrived. He assumed that they were pulling back for a new strike, but with all this damnable fog, he couldn't tell a single detail.  
  
Ashram closed his eyes, focusing all his discipline. It wasn't a well known fact, but he and Beld shared a very limited telepathic link; useful in combat, as it made botched commands almost non-existent. My lord, the prey are in the trap.  
  
Eerily replaying the events of a week past, Beld's eyes snapped open. He grinned, and sent the command to his priests. The mist was unnecessary, even detrimental now. He wanted Fahn to know unquestioningly what he was up against.  
  
Fahn's eyes narrowed as he could feel the Breath of Falis vibrating in his sheath. He could feel the powers of Soul Crusher as they fought against his own sword. "Beld..."  
  
Beld smiled as he unsheathed his sword. It was finally time. Thirty years of waiting, and it was finally time. "Fahn..."  
  
Deed's eyes narrowed as the mist began to dissipate. She could feel the pull of the spirits in its movements; unnatural movements. "Trent!"  
  
The dark elf nodded, unsheathing his sword and dagger. "I can feel it. Get ready."  
  
Soldiers began exclaiming in dismay as the mist revealed their position; surrounded, in the bowl of a valley, shear-faced rock cliffs surrounding them. And on every single side, soldiers, goblins, ogres, kobolds, and dark elves; all wearing the regalia of the island of Kardis's death.  
  
Deed called out to Trent in particular and the rest of the army in general as she unsheathed her rapier. "Here they come!"  
  
For reasons that puzzle the heck out of me, dead silence surrounded the field as Ashram, at the head of the party, drew his long sword and held it aloft. Every eye, all twenty thousand of those still living watched as he dropped it to point straight for the mixed forces of the three free nations.  
  
Then, War was unleashed.  
  
--------  
  
Miles away, Etoh gasped in shock. He knew, somewhere deep inside of him that the battle had begun; he could feel the shock of deaths of those who fought. "Trent...Deed..."  
  
Slayn looked up. Ghim had grudgingly agreed to wait for his own confrontation with Karla until after the war, and was at the moment coiling and braiding rope while he checked over his packs. At loose ends, and with all those who could be healed alive, all they could do now was wait. "Go."  
  
"What?"  
  
Slayn sighed. He could feel the deaths as well, and he knew what would be the outcome; more death. Marmo or Valis winning didn't matter to most mages; all that mattered was that people would die. "There's nothing more we can do here. The battlefield is one of the only places left for you. Go."  
  
Etoh stared at him, then nodded, his resolve firmly in place. Leaping onto his horse, he charged for the south east.  
  
--------  
  
Deep in the Tower of Moss, Wort stared moodily into the flames crackling in his mantle. Had he allowed himself to, he could likely have felt the heat rolling from the fire, heard sparks and pine knots cracking, seen the rich hues of crimson and gold.  
  
None of that mattered right now. All that mattered was the vision.  
  
Like Slayn, Wort didn't think that Valis or Marmo winning would change anything. Especially not in the long run; neither had created this war. The one who orchestrated the whole thing was in another castle, watching just as he was. She was the one who needed to be considered.  
  
He could see it far too clearly in his mind's eye; the new six heroes confronting Karla in her citadel; the dark elf and the high elf, mage and priest, dwarf and thief.  
  
(Trent) "Why did you do this? Why did you start this stupid war?"  
  
(Karla) "Why, to save Lodoss."  
  
(Trent, snorting) "You honestly think that helping Marmo is going to save Lodoss?"  
  
(Karla) "Should I have aided Valis then?"  
  
(Trent) "WHAT?!"  
  
(Karla) "It makes no difference to me. One side is as good as the other."  
  
Wort allowed himself to return to the present. "That boy...he may be the key..."  
  
--------  
  
For the most part, fancy swordplay and such is useless in a true battle. Even in old movies and such, the staring down your opponent, the posing, the intricacies of fencing; they all take place in duels. Look once in a while at a real battle; you'll find that it's more a matter of trying not to succumb to bloodlust, slicing and hacking and bashing as fast as possible to try and stay alive. No speeches or billowing capes and glistening armor; it draws far too much attention.  
  
Deed was a surprisingly proving herself a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. She was over a century in age, and versed in her swordplay for decades. Those that came near her rapier ended up slashed and stabbed to death before they had time to realize she was far from helpless.  
  
Woodchuck had refused a sword. As he'd sensibly pointed out, he had never used one, and was more likely to decapitate the ally next to him than kill the enemy. The result? The thief was currently employing every dirty street-fighting trick he knew in conjunction with his foot-long tempered steel daggers, and was tearing into the warriors around him as easily as the high elf.  
  
Trent? He had been trained from the day he was born as a killing machine; as a hunter by his father, as a murderer by his mother. He didn't shift through the battle, killing those who came near as the press of battle drew them in range. Tanto and katana whirled in long and short arcs as he slipped through the ranks like a shadow; everywhere he passed, opponents fell in pieces.  
  
He paused as he noticed a gap in the battle; neither Marmo nor Valis soldiers fighting save three. Two soldiers were rapidly being turned into cold meat, by a single knight in black, full plate armor. Trent's eyes widened in shock at the sight. Him...It's him. Memory flashed back to fortress Myce, to the dark figure standing atop the blazing ramparts. Trent's eyes went dead as he firmed the grip on his blades.  
  
Ashram was inwardly disgusted. Not by the bloodshed; the youngest people he knew of on Marmo with the luxury of squeamish stomachs were four year olds.  
  
THIS was the strongest war machine in Lodoss? THESE were the greatest and strongest knights his enemies had to offer? If this was the case, he seriously questioned why the Emperor had waited so long before beginning his conquest.  
  
A whisper of motion was his only warning as a new figure shot towards him. His sword whipped up into a vertical guard, deflecting the strike as the figure shot past him, sparks flying from where the blades met. Ashram's eyes narrowed as he recognized the dark elf as the one who'd stared back at him in Alania. "The criminal."  
  
Trent didn't bother talking back, simply shifting his sword to a reverse position, more suitable for unpredictable speed slashes. The two dark figures charged again, longsword against katana as they strove to kill the other.  
  
Ashram allowed himself a very small grin as he shoved the elf back. THIS was a challenge, a worthwhile opponent. Fast, nimble, and absolutely sure in his motions, this was a master of killing. An equal.  
  
Deed's eyes widened as she saw Trent in a duel against someone strong enough to challenge him. Slipping her hand into a pouch near her waist, she hurled a trio of throwing daggers towards the knight.  
  
Pirotess frowned at the sight of Trent and Ashram fighting. She didn't understand what was going on, but apparently he wasn't interested in fighting for Marmo. Of course, this is when she noticed the high elf lobbing daggers. Coming to the predictable (if incorrect) conclusion that she assumed Shadowlight to be a Marmo soldier, she leapt forward, deflecting two of them in short order.  
  
Ashram spared a glance for the last blade, knocking it to the side with his sword. This momentary lapse proved deadly as Trent's dagger interposed itself next to his throat.  
  
Both elven warrior maidens froze at the sight. Each assumed that the other had been Trent's enemy. Each assumed that the fight had ended.  
  
Trent glared coldly at his foe's back. Then, he did the unthinkable. "Stay out of this, Deed." He snapped the dagger away from Ashram's exposed veins and shoved him roughly forward. "You as well."  
  
Ashram spun as he stumbled forward. He stared coldly across the space at Trent for a few moments, then respectfully nodded to him. Trent echoed it, firming his grip along with Ashram's. A second later, they were both back at it, though with a noticeable difference.  
  
Respect.  
  
Ashram hadn't begged, nor would he have. He'd been fully prepared to face death for his actions. Trent could have taken advantage of an outside interference and coldly dispatched Ashram with pure logic. He'd chosen instead to kill him honorably. They would still try their best to kill each other, but they would do so knowing that whoever survived would have earned their victory.  
  
"BEEELLLLDDDDDD!"  
  
The two paused in their mutual attempts to turn the other into a meat by- product. Ashram chose to use this new-found camaraderie to shove Trent out of the way and to charge back into the mist.  
  
The dark elf grimaced at his retreating figure, but let it go. It was actually kind of nice to have a rival. It explained a lot about why Ranma tolerated Ryouga.  
  
He paused, wondering where the hell THOSE names and THAT thought had come from, but was spared further thought as Fahn continued bellowing like a wounded...something.  
  
"BELD! WHERE ARE YOU BELD?! SURELY YOU HAVEN'T FORGETTEN MY FACE THESE PAST THIRTY YEARS!!! BEEEEELLLLLLDDDDDD!"  
  
Normal battle is confusion. Duels are for honor on a field in the middle of a grassy knoll or something. Still, they're not unheard of on battlefields.  
  
Almost eerily, the two sides separated to allow a decent ground for Fahn and Beld to hack each other to bits; the Marmo forces because they had a pretty good idea what would happen to them if they tried to keep Beld from fulfilling his obsession of the past couple dozen years, the Valis forces because when Fahn won, they'd be able to ride back home in triumph, make sentai poses while their eyes glittered, and boast about how great Fahn was on the battle field. Or something.  
  
Deed idly supposed that she should be impressed by the current display of Beld and Fahn striding out to face each other, their chests swaying as they swaggered slowly forward, that black knight serving as Beld's second, Kashue as Fahn's. She turned to check Trent's reaction...  
  
...and nearly had apoplexy as she noticed that scantily clad dark elf female who'd deflected her attack on Ashram standing right next to him. WHAT are they doing?! Why aren't the knights attacking her or something?!  
  
Trent winced imperceptibly. He could FEEL Deedlit's indignation at him not filleting Pirotess. Oy, this wasn't going to be pretty. He walked over towards her, and bent down towards her ear. "Look, she's defecting from Marmo. I'll explain the rest later."  
  
Pirotess's eyes narrowed as she saw him going for what looked to be a nibble or something. It was plain that there was something between the two; honestly, she knew of kobolds who could have probably seen it. So what had the high elf done to make herself attractive?  
  
We now return you to your regularly scheduled duel of titans.  
  
The two kings almost simultaneously drew swords, Fahn's glittering white, Beld's letting loose somber, violet energies. "This is the end...old friend..."  
  
Beld smirked at Fahn's comment. He'd given up caring about the old king years ago; he wanted Fahn dead a lot worse than Fahn wanted him.  
  
Doesn't it just warm your heart?  
  
Their sheaths tossed to the ground at their sides, the two monarchs charged each other, swords raised.  
  
To anyone even remotely sensitive, Soul Crusher and Falis's Breath clanging off each other was an extremely uncomfortable happening. The holy energies given of by Fahn's sword were savagely battling the demon power in Beld's; the clashes gave off surreal hisses and clangs, as though the swords had lives of their own, as though they were trying to kill the sword as opposed to the wielder.  
  
Fahn grimaced as they entered a mutual sword lock. Beld was the stronger by a slight degree; so much of Fahn's time had been taken up in mindless bureaucracy that he'd had little time to train. Still, he wouldn't stop fighting. "Why Beld? Why is this fight our only choice?"  
  
Beld snarled back at him. He was stronger than he'd remembered. "You will not have Lodoss!"  
  
"I never wanted to conquer it, I wanted it simply united!"  
  
"Unification, Conquest; there's no difference!"  
  
The emperor of Marmo shoved Fahn back, his next counter-slash missing closely enough that Fahn's cloak was severed.  
  
Trent winced, idly considering a judicious scalpel somewhere. Not in Beld himself, but maybe in the ground just to trip him. Fortunately for his honor, the choice never materialized.  
  
"Trent..."  
  
The dark elf paused at the deep voice in his mind, one he recognized. "Wort? What the hell are you doing? We're kind of in the middle of a war right now."  
  
"I know that. Trent, this war is as nothing compared to the tragedy yet to come. You must stop Karla."  
  
Trent paused, biting back his sarcastic retort (actually, just saving it for late.) "Why stop Karla? She's dangerous, but I don't think she's the kind to make direct confrontations."  
  
"Karla was a native of Kastuul, the legendary Sorcerer's kingdom that ended seven hundred years ago on Lodoss. Having witnessed the struggles that destroyed her world, she is bound and determined to keep it from happening to Lodoss again."  
  
Trent rolled his eyes. "So what, she thinks that stirring up wars is going to save the people of Lodoss or something? Brilliant, Holmes."  
  
He got the distinct impression that he'd irritated Wort. "She is unbalanced with all of her years. She does believe that what she is doing will save the world, by keeping power scattered enough that it can never consolidate in great enough amounts to finish off Lodoss."  
  
Trent paused. "Okay, I guess that makes a twisted, warped kind of sense." He sighed. "Alright, I agree that something has to be done, but what? In case its escaped your notice, I'm quite a bit weaker than Karla, and I'm a warrior, not a mage. So I hope you have a way around her near- invincibility."  
  
"Her circlet. Karla's current guise is indeed Leylia, the daughter of Neese that Ghim searches for. It was not her only body, nor was it the one she wore in our battle against the demon thirty years ago. It is her circlet that is her true form; destroy it, and you will destroy her for good. If not, merely remove it and keep it from finding a new wearer, and she will be contained and harmless."  
  
Trent squeegee blinked at that. "Thirty years ago? So, 'the flame which had no name to give..."  
  
"Trent!"  
  
The dark elf shook his head dazedly, taking a quick look around. Apparently, he'd been in some kind of a trance since Wort's spell had begun. Far enough out of it that Deed and Pirotess had noticed. Speaking of whom... "Uh, you can let go of me now."  
  
The two blinked in confusion. They'd grabbed his arms, hugging them as they called to him. Pirotess had the grace to look slightly embarrassed, though it was nothing compared to Deed's outright blush. The two hastily disentangled themselves, for once ignoring the other's gaff.  
  
Back on the field, the duel continued for almost an hour. Both warriors were very evenly matched; neither one was making any real headway against the other. Beld panted tiredly as he used his sword to support him partially. "Time hasn't really changed us all that much has it, old friend?"  
  
Fahn ignored the 'old friend' remark, firming his grip on Falis's Breath. "I've got enough life left in me to finish you off."  
  
Beld openly laughed at that. "Just what I was thinking." Tightening his own grip, he and Fahn began a simultaneous charge. The two leapt into the air feet before they met, slashing viciously, neither one bothering to try and survive the exchange.  
  
Fahn's sword bit deeply in Beld's shoulder, severing muscle and bone as it buried itself over his collar bone.  
  
Beld's stroke started at the left collar bone and moved down to the right, severing the great artery at the base of Fahn's neck.  
  
They both collapsed following the exchange; Fahn dead as he struck the ground, Beld merely injured severely. Ashram charged forward to his king as he began staggering forward. "My lord!"  
  
Beld looked up tiredly. He was exhausted; from the fight, from the campaign, and more importantly from the blood leak. He was hardly in any shape to fight, let alone defend himself.  
  
Not the best condition to be in when a javelin abruptly materializes from ten thousand feet and hurtles through your chest.  
  
In her castle, Karla smiled in deep satisfaction. The fight and the war had both gone precisely as she'd planned. "Lodoss shall never be conquered, nor shall it be unified."  
  
Wagnard laughed as he viewed the scene from afar. This was perfect; it was only a matter of time now.  
  
--------  
  
Soul Crusher fell from lifeless fingers, its temporary master and host incapable of restraining any of it. The demonic energies of a Prince of Hell began seeping around the area, interacting with the godly energies of the now masterless Breath of Falis. In the maelstrom of conflicting energies, new forces began to stir; thunder, wind, water, and storm.  
  
Lightning arced out of the sky, into the javelin pinning Beld in place on the field. Seconds later, a tempest erupted.  
  
Kashue immediately took command. "Get under cover, before this storm eats you alive!"  
  
The clash of demon's and god's energy had effects reaching farther than near anyone could have imagined. Five streams of energy raced from the battleground in the center of Lodoss; each with a great power to warn.  
  
In the southwest, a lance of energy struck deeply in the waters, awakening Eibra, the water dragon. Known as the ocean's demon, he had reigned for eons off the coasts, one of five ancient dragons.  
  
In the far northwest of Lodoss, in the great temple of Marfa, the first lance struck Bramd, the ice dragon; oldest, wisest, and gentlest of the five Ancient dragons.  
  
In the north and center, a beam burrowed deeply into a volcano, striking the crimson Demon Dragon, Shooting Star; the undisputed lord of the desert, and the most powerful of all the ancient dragons.  
  
To the west, a beam flared into the mountain caverns of the kingdom of Moss, disturbing Mycen, the golden dragon. Sleek, regal, and flying on wings more befitting falcons than dragons, he alone stood beside Bramd and the Good dragons.  
  
The last beam flew far into the southeast, to the foundations of Castle Conquera. Narse, the black dragon who Kardis herself had chosen to guard her grave, roared as he awoke from his millennia of hibernation. His king was dead. Now, a new power would rise.  
  
--------  
  
Ashram slumped to the ground besides the corpse of his emperor, ignoring the howling winds and hellish lightning that flared angrily, hungrily around him. The dream of finally leading his people off the hell he called Marmo was destroyed. Beld had the strength of Soul Crusher; none would follow him without challenge. He could lead, but it would be a rabble.  
  
It need not be...  
  
He paused, as he heard a seductive voice. Turning, he stared at where Soul Crusher had fallen from Beld's grasp.  
  
I have power beyond what you can imagine, warrior. Take me, and rule Marmo! Rule EVERYTHING!  
  
Ashram's eyes narrowed as he looked over the blade. It would struggle to take control of him, to rule instead of him. It would seek him as a puppet, as a way to exert its power. He could take it up, and he would rule all Marmo, eventually rule Lodoss. The question was, could he master it? Could he bend the demon sword to his will? Was he stronger than the remnants of a prince of hell?  
  
Firming his resolve, he grasped the carved ebony hilt, and stood. Violet light flared off the sword as it sought control only to rebound from the tempered adamant of Ashram's will. It raged for a few minutes, but in the end subsided. In time, it could learn what it wished. In time, it could master him.  
  
--------  
  
The storm raged for hours, battering everything in its path. In the end though, its power died down, leaving a barren, rocky plain swept clean of everything but the corpses littering it.  
  
Trent stared moodily at the corpse of Fahn, somehow untouched by the ravages of the storm. He paused, watching Kashue stride away without touching it. "Are you just going to leave him there?"  
  
Kashue paused for a moment. Without looking back, he swung into the saddle of his horse. "The dead lay where they fall. That is the fate of all men. Even kings."  
  
Trent sighed as the king rode away. Turning to his own horse, he withdrew a long, wide piece of red cloth, the cloak from the armor Fahn had offered him. He'd accepted it, but refused to wear it in the end. Only now did it serve any purpose. Kneeling beside the fallen sword Falis's Breath, he slid it into the sheath. Ignoring the murmurs from nearby soldiers, as a dark elf was somehow able to safely handle the holy sword, he wrapped it in the cloak and slung it across his back.  
  
Pirotess watched as he swung onto his horse. "Why are you taking that?"  
  
He paused for a moment. "The people of Valis have lost their king. As Kashue said, his body will remain here. They deserve something they can mourn." Scooting backwards on the saddle, he turned to them. "One of you take that other horse, the other will have to ride with me..." He paused as Deed somehow managed to teleport directly in front of him. The pause turned to a sweatdrop as she stuck her tongue out at a glaring Pirotess. What have I gotten myself into?  
  
Sighing as the dark elf female climbed onto Deed's former horse, he could only reflect that having to deal with two attractive female elves who seemed interested in him (and he was damned if he could figure out why) made fighting a near-immortal, seven-hundred year old, ridiculously overly powerful witch seem a lot less burdensome.  
  
The worst that could happen with the latter would be him dying, after all. With the two elves? He shuddered. Some things, mortal man is not meant to know. 


	8. Fantasia, Chapter 08

Chapter Eight Requiem for Warriors  
  
The term 'checkmate' is derived from an Egyptian phrase. The phrase literally translates to mean, 'the king is dead, long live the king.' In a way, it reflects that nobility is an extremely transient thing, that kings come and go with time and no real stability.  
  
Valis was becoming acutely aware of this fact, with the death of Fahn. Pirotess sighed disconsolately as she watched the court in mourning from an alcove in the rafters. Trent had been accepted; SHE had not.  
  
As it was, she had to admit that she did feel some sympathy for the people in mourning, particularly the new queen, formerly Princess Fiana. She didn't like or understand humans to any large degree, but apparently there were SOME things that were worthwhile concerning them.  
  
--------  
  
Karla's castle was an old ruin of her bygone age, the Age of Sorcery. Planted firmly in the waters of an old lake, it appeared at first glance a run-down, barely-standing ruin. Aside from the fact that it would most likely survive several hundred more years, the initial impression was quite correct. Once you reach a certain age (beyond human norm, generally) you realize just how pointless it is to worry about appearances. (Bet you wish your parents would reach said age, doncha?)  
  
Slayn sighed as he gazed towards the castle. He and Ghim had been essentially camped out here for the past two weeks, waiting for the others to arrive.  
  
He just wished he knew more about the blasted place or the sorceress inside. His first and only attempt to probe its insides had resulted in the psychic equivalent of stumbling into a wall in the dark. Karla knew they were there. They knew that she knew. She knew that they knew that she knew, and on for all infinity. Which unfortunately left the only uncertain part being what would happen when they fought.  
  
The mage turned to see Ghim carving some kind of comb out of the wood nearby. He'd remembered hearing somewhere that dwarves had some kind of cultural and instinctive compulsion to create, to make things. Judging from the smile pile of fully articulated carvings and such nearby, that was the complete truth. "Is that for her?"  
  
Ghim nodded silently.  
  
"I would have imagined something fancier to be more appropriate."  
  
Ghim paused, setting down his knife. "Look Slayn. This is for Leylia. You don't know Leylia, understand? All you've met so far is Karla."  
  
Slayn sighed quietly as his friend returned to his carving. He hadn't the faintest idea who Leylia was; that was the real problem. He knew Karla, the ruthless manipulative sorceress. This priestess girl who had been so shy and gentle?  
  
Who the hell was she?  
  
--------  
  
Farther away, the end of the war was being greeted in a manner...more acidic than normal.  
  
"God damn it! As soon as the war ends, we're kicked out like we're the scum of the earth!!"  
  
The speaker proved to be an attractive (if pissed) human female; looking to be in early to mid twenties. She dressed mostly in red; thigh-high boots and short tunic, both trimmed with fur around all the seams. Over her shoulders was some kind of white half cloak that served dual purposes as slight armor. Add an orange cape and a rapier, and that pretty much completes the image. Aside from her clothing, her most striking feature was the short mop of fiery red hair crowning her pale violet eyes.  
  
Shiris spun to her companion, still burning with vitriol. "Well?! Doesn't it just piss you off?!"  
  
Her companion could possibly have been a greater contrast, but I can't see how. Whereas Shiris was a slender woman maybe five six in height, he was well over six feet, thickly corded with muscle that somehow kept the image of lumbering from coming up. His hair was short, shaggy, and brown, his eyes a brown so light they seemed to be red. He wore a chest-plate of scarred bronze and leather armor over pants that were at one point pure white, a green cloak slung over his shoulders. Also opposing Shiris's light rapier, his weapon was a five foot long (the blade was only about three and a half) claymore.  
  
The most striking difference between them was attitude; Orson had barely any emotion whatsoever, giving the image of a tired or sated wild animal as opposed to Shiris's near-perpetual angst.  
  
She blinked in confusion at Orson's lack of response, but shrugged it off. He never reacted to anything; why should this change now for her? "Damn it to hell! That mayor begged us to protect his village, then once the danger was over he couldn't get rid of us fast enough. WHAT THE HELL DID HE THINK MERCENARIES WERE FOR?!"  
  
Orson sighed slightly as she started kicking rocks around. Anger was so stupid; he should know. He froze, his eyes shifting into alertness with surprising speed.  
  
Below the cliff, Trent, Deed, Woodchuck, and Etoh were riding for all they were worth. In trees that the two mercenaries had secreted themselves in, they watched them pass.  
  
"Who are they?"  
  
Shiris shook her head. "Don't know." She began a running commentary as they rode closer. "That one in the lead's a definite warrior, the next one looks like a thief." Her eyes widened in shock as she got a better look. "The ones in the front and back have pointed ears!"  
  
Orson allowed himself a frown. "Elves? You think it's Marmo?"  
  
"Could be." She gnawed at her lip in worry. "Damn, they're headed for that village we were supposed to be protecting."  
  
Orson wasn't the type to start rolling his eyes, but come on. Less than two minutes ago bitching about those ungrateful sons of bitches, and now she's oh so terribly worried about them. How very menstrual. "That's not our concern any more."  
  
"That's not the point," she snapped.  
  
Orson readied his blade. He didn't bother arguing with his partner; he couldn't remember the last time he had.  
  
Below, the four riders continued their headlong charge. At least until a pair of throwing knives shot towards them. Trent dodged the blade automatically; Deed with little difficulty. Wood managed to dodge a third, but in the process his horse bucked him off and sent both him and Etoh flying down the cliffs.  
  
Finally rolling to a stop, they found themselves staring at the business end of Orson's claymore. "What the hell..."  
  
Above, Trent readied his own swords. Then Shiris had to butt in. "Orson! I'll leave those two to you!"  
  
Trent's head spun to the voice as the female mercenary launched herself out of the tree. He parried her slash, rolling with the momentum off his horse. Seconds later, he charged her abruptly. His first blow was blocked, but the follow-up from his dagger disarmed her neatly.  
  
She gasped in shock as he shoved her roughly into the cliff face, his dagger at her throat. "Who the hell are you? Soldiers or something?"  
  
Despite the fact that she was kind of helpless, Shiris managed to glare back at him. "Who cares what I am? Marmo scum like you doesn't deserve my name."  
  
Trent startled the daylights out of her by laughing openly. Even stranger, it was a genuine laugh of amusement; no cruelty at all. "Marmo? Tell me something, how many soldiers of Marmo go running around with the priests of Falis?"  
  
"HUH?!"  
  
Below, Orson shifted his attention back to the fight on the cliff top, only to find Shiris pinned and in what seemed to be mortal danger. Certain reactions started to take place in the otherwise placid warrior. Reactions he REALLY disliked.  
  
Seeing his captor's attention elsewhere, Woodchuck made an abortive rush, only to freeze after less than a foot away from his original position. "What..."  
  
Orson was literally glowing with rage, an eerie green light streaming of his expanding muscles. The calm expression on his face was gone, replaced by the face of a bear who's just been waken up by pointed sticks in the middle of hibernation.  
  
I.E, real damn pissed.  
  
Trent sighed as he sheathed his blades. Explaining that he wasn't with Marmo but was a dark elf had once again proven to be a severe pain in the...posterior, but it got her out of his hair, preferably for good. "Look, we've got to be going, so..."  
  
Further comments were shelved as Orson shot over their head, only to neatly crater the ground at where he landed.  
  
Trent coughed nervously at the sight of a demonically glowing Orson. Normal people would have likely peed themselves, but he was a bit too odd to have that kind of reaction. As such, he shifted to his old stand-by; sarcasm. "Eh...I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you this was all some kind of misunderstanding?"  
  
"Quick! Drop your sword!"  
  
Not one to throw away free advice, Trent yanked out his wakizashi and dropped it on the ground alongside his katana. "Will this work?"  
  
Shiris quickly got off the ground. "No one can stop Orson once he gets angry!"  
  
Trent 'yiped' as he dove to the side, Orson's claymore carving out a gaping cleft in the cliff's faces. "I thought dropping my sword meant he'd stop trying to kill me!"  
  
"TRENT!"  
  
Deed shot between Etoh and the two warriors. "Stop it! I think...I think he's Hyuri!"  
  
Trent ducked under a second vicious slash, really wishing he hadn't heard what Deed had just said. He knew enough about Hyuri to be aware that there was VERY little he could do short of killing the mercenary; pretty hard when you can barely make any attack. He continued dodging for the next minute or so; Orson's raw power was about forty times more than Trent's, but fortunately, he was very slow.  
  
Abruptly Shiris tackled Orson from behind. "Orson! Calm down! I'm fine, alright!"  
  
The possessed warrior struggled against compulsions from within and without; he wanted to KILL. He wanted to protect Shiris more than he wanted to kill (fortunately), so within the next thirty seconds, he had collapsed to the ground, panting and completely drained.  
  
Shiris sighed as she hugged the exhausted warrior. "Orson...you idiot..."  
  
Trent sighed, shaking his head. Shiris's eyes widened as he went for his swords, but as he just sheathed them rather than trying to attack again, she relaxed easily enough. Not bothering to speak to her, he climbed back on his horse.  
  
Etoh frowned as Trent prepared to just ride off. "What just happened?"  
  
Deed sighed as she went for her own horse. "He's Hyuri, a berserker. Something happened to him in the past that allowed Hyuri, the spirit of rage and insanity to possess him." She continued staring at the two mercenaries. "It's said that where a berserker passes, only corpses remain."  
  
Etoh's eyes widened in horror. One of the old guards at the temple had told him once, a long time ago about facing a berserker. He'd had nightmares about the story for weeks to come.  
  
Trent paused as he rode past. "I'm sorry about all this. Whatever happens, good luck." Shaking his head as the two ignored him, they rode off.  
  
--------  
  
"I'm sure they're almost here..."  
  
Ghim glared at the attempting-to-be-soothing mage. "Slayn, I'm not waiting any longer. This is my fight, and my quest. I'm the only one who Kar...Leylia might listen to. I have to go." His hand tightened on his axe, his muscles clenching abruptly as Slayn moved forward. "Slayn, so help me if you try that spell again..."  
  
Slayn froze. Dwarves aren't terribly impressive, but only idiots rile them up unnecessarily. He would last all of thirteen seconds against Ghim if he got good and pissed. He backed down.  
  
Ghim nodded calmly for all that his grip stayed tight. "Stay here or come if you wish." He turned and began his journey to the lake.  
  
He was slightly worried as he entered. Not because of the fact he was facing off a damn near goddess level sorceress and he couldn't hit her physically. Well, he was, but he'd been worrying about that for the past few months so it really didn't count. No, what worried him was the fact that there were no traps or sentries; nothing but ruins and old gargoyles and such.  
  
"So, you've come. I wonder, what do you actually hope to accomplish?"  
  
Ghim froze at the lilting, mocking voice. Taking a deep breath, he walked towards the source. He found her waiting in what he imagined was once a throne room of some kind, standing on a raised dais at the end of a long corridor. "Karla...no, Leylia."  
  
Karla laughed mockingly. "Leylia? Yes, that was the name of the girl who's body I wear. Now? Now Leylia's gone. I'm all that's left." She raised an eyebrow speculatively as his eyes hardened. "I wonder, what are you going to do? Are you willing to kill me to free the child?"  
  
Ghim winced at her ultimatum. He'd wondered if there was anything he could fight for, but really he had no chance. All he could do was hope, and pray that he reached the priestess, not the witch.  
  
--------  
  
Outside, Slayn gnawed his lip worriedly as he felt mage energies begin to build within the castle. He didn't think Ghim was being harmed; there was too little energy, spread to wide to do that. Still, he wanted to help.  
  
Fat lot of good he'd do alone, though. He froze as he heard a very distant rustling, a kind of spastic series of thumps.  
  
--------  
  
"GRAAAAUUURRGGGGGGGHHHHH!"  
  
Ghim winced in pain as Karla's magic began to pound at him, yanking him through the air like a leaf in a cyclone. "Let...LET HER GO!"  
  
Karla ignored his cries. "You're stronger than I thought. Still, you don't think you'll actually last, do you?"  
  
From behind gritted teeth, Ghim managed to force out a last plea. "If...if it's a body you want, take mine."  
  
Karla sighed. Boring already. "You presume far too much." With a brief burst of energy, she shot him into the air only to let him drop.  
  
From the side of the room, a huge, mostly transparent sphere of greenish light rocketed towards Ghim, snagging him out from his fall all of thirty inches above the ground.  
  
Karla's eyes burst to the side as she looked towards Slayn's raised staff.  
  
And Etoh's holy mace.  
  
And the two sword-wielding elves.  
  
And she smiled.  
  
Trent openly glared at her. "You cut Kannon and Lodoss into ribbons at Beld's side. Why kill him moments before he won?"  
  
Karla's eyes widened in curiosity. "Would you prefer that I had helped Fahn instead?"  
  
Trent's eyes widened incredulously. "WHAT?!"  
  
"It makes little difference to me who I aid."  
  
Trent stared in absolute shock. He'd expected several things from her; this was most definitely not one of them. "You fought as one of the six heroes thirty years ago. You did your best to finish off Marmo. Now you do your best to finish off the rest of Lodoss." Tightening the grip on his sword, he snarled at her, "WHY?!"  
  
Slayn hurled another mage sphere at Karla, this one set to smash as opposed to catch. It was effortlessly defused as it struck her shielding. Even worse, it failed to distract her from Trent and Deed's attack. Both were simultaneously slammed by force walls, sent flying.  
  
Trent was never 100% sure what happened next. The last thing he remembered was the sound of Deed's scream as she bounced across the floor. Conscious thought kind of took the a-train after that.  
  
Deed's eyes widened as Trent's speed abruptly quadrupled. He'd always been fast, but this was something else entirely. It was hard to tell what he was doing; all you could really see was a black blur shooting towards Karla, and sprays of sparks after each pass.  
  
Karla's estimation of Trent's abilities raised considerably. He was capable of cold rage; a power increase similar to a berserker's, but with logic completely intact. Not as much raw power as Hyuri, but far rarer and more dangerous. Still, it was little trouble for her. She openly laughed as Trent deflected a trio of low-power mage bolts with his sword. She was even impressed as he flicked a pair of his throwing scalpels towards her through a shadow gate as he charged her.  
  
Trent was bodily shoved away from the barrier as Deed and Slayn simultaneously attacked; Deed with wind spirits, Slayn with fire-bolts. Rebounding from the wall he'd been launched towards, he leapt upward, praying that gravity would give him enough oomph to at least distract her.  
  
Energy flared around him as his sword impacted the shield, then abruptly he fell through as everything seemed to grow misty. He paused as he looked around, wonder in his eyes at the change of scenery. "What is this place?"  
  
Karla's mocking smile slipped towards sadness, the first genuine sadness she'd felt in centuries as she stared at the ruins of castles and flying cities that had been the pride of her world. "This is all that's left of Kastuul."  
  
"Kastuul...the sorcerer's kingdom. YOUR kingdom." Trent paused as he stared at the devastation. "This is how it fell?"  
  
Karla continued looking at the ruins. "My world was shaken to its core by the nearly constant battles to regain the total power and control. One faction rose only to be destroyed by the next. In the end, the insane struggle for total rule ripped my world apart." Karla's eyes hardened. "I swore as the castles fell that I would not allow this to happen to Lodoss." Her voice now turned cajoling. "So I start these little wars to keep the power spread. As long as it does not consolidate in any one place, the destruction will never be complete."  
  
Trent really wished she'd chosen a non-psychological weapon to use against him. Getting the tar kicked out of him was something he could deal with. This? Logic was not something he could defend against all that well.  
  
Karla's hand extended towards him. "Come, aid me. We can save Lodoss, we can save everyone from themselves."  
  
THAT, proved unwise. Trent's innate dislikes of leaders and such asserted itself. "Like Beld?" He laughed harshly as her hand wavered. "Yeah, you helped Beld like this, didn't you?" Trent rose from his crouch, his sword in hand. "If you care so much about Lodoss, why don't you keep the wars apart as well as the power? If you're so f%$#-ing wise, why don't you come up with some option other than senseless slaughter?"  
  
That also proved unwise, as Karla's response proved to be a much stronger mage blast than she'd been bothering with lately, breaking the illusion that had kept them suspended away from the rest.  
  
Deed ran forward to help slow his fall. "Trent, what just happened?"  
  
The dark elf winced. "I believe I made her pissed."  
  
Woodchuck winced. "Ah hell, she's gonna slaughter us before we can get that damn circlet."  
  
Ghim's eyes widened. "Her circlet?"  
  
Etoh nodded. "Wort told us that the circlet's her weak spot. All we have to do is get it off her head, and Karla's gone."  
  
Ghim allowed himself a fierce grin. Finally, something to go at it with the hack and slash. TARGETS!!!!!!!  
  
Karla's ever-present smile had finally been strained past its limit. Her face looked positively demonic as she stared them down, a pale, ghostly blue aura of light blazing like fire around her. "I have no use for pawns who will not allow themselves to be moved." The aura turned to a demonic shade of violet. "Good-bye."  
  
Trent instinctively threw himself in front of Deed as the aura surrounding Karla exploded forward into a river of magical energy. Judging from the raw power that he was sensing and his own extremely limited magical resistances, he figured the very best case scenario would be him sustaining severe, possibly crippling and/or disfiguring injuries while Deed hopefully survived. Worst case scenario? All six of them dying a prolonged, gruesome, and painful death.  
  
Fate, old bitch that she was, decided that he deserved a break (with a rather large incentive (read as threat) from higher powers), and grudgingly gave him a better than best scenario.  
  
Though Trent kind of felt otherwise.  
  
Ghim grimaced in pain as he planted himself firmly in the maelstrom of energy rippling of Karla's form. His axe in front of him, he was barely able to deflect the blast around him enough to keep everyone else alive. Not that he minded all that much; he'd not been joking when he'd promised Neese that he'd find and return Leylia, no matter what the cost. So he'd probably die; so what? He'd lived a long, relatively happy life.  
  
Trent stared in shock as Ghim somehow managed to wade forward through a barrage of mage energy that should have been stripping his flesh from bone. "What the hell are you doing, you idiotic mole?!"  
  
"TRENT! WAIT!"  
  
The dark elf stared incredulously at Slayn. "Wait?! For what?! In case it's escaped your notice, Ghim's kind of poking death in the eye right now."  
  
Slayn winced at the description, but he was a mage, and thus a realist (for the most part). "Trent, he's the only reason why we're still alive right now." He sighed. "And as he's repeatedly told me, this is his battle. We have no right to interfere in it."  
  
Ghim continued grimly wading towards Karla. "You...are...Leylia. Try...try to...remember!" Faltering, he dropped to his knees. His hand fumbled inside his shirt as he removed the ornately carved wooden comb. "Please...please Leylia, try to remember..."  
  
The witch paused as she looked at the little bauble that the fool thought he could buy her with. Pathetic, really.  
  
Ghim...  
  
Karla's eyes widened in shock. No. No, don't you dare try and wake up now. I am the one in control, not you, little girl.  
  
Despite her mental bravado, Karla was losing the battle to Leylia's care for the grumbly old dwarf. Her former body's personality started to re- emerge, causing the spell to end as Leylia stared towards Ghim.  
  
This proved all the distraction needed. Trent and Deed charged her after hurling throwing knives, Wood's daggers adding to the hail.  
  
Under possible threat of death, Karla's survival instincts and adrenaline surge kicked back in, giving her full control. The knives froze in midair, the elves bounced right off.  
  
Ghim snatched at his axe, and with the last of his strength hurled it at the witch's figure.  
  
Karla might have been able to block it, but Leylia's over-riding shock of being attacked by Ghim broke her concentration just long enough for the flying axe to take the circlet off, not even mussing the hair beneath it.  
  
Karla froze for a moment, then screamed in pain of the violation of being ripped from her vessel. Seconds later, a very bewildered Leylia was all that was left. The priestess's eyes widened in horror at the sight of Ghim laying there, badly injured. She ran to him, stumbling despite herself over the unnecessarily long train of her violet gown. "Ghim!"  
  
The dwarf allowed himself a painful smile as he watched her approach, cradling his head in her arms. "I...missed you." He coughed painfully. "I...I told Neese that I would find you...didn't I..."  
  
Trent stared in shock as the dwarf died. A strangled whisper escaped his lips. "Ghim..."  
  
Deed stared at him in trepidation. He'd stood there, stone-cold when Fahn had died. Now, the cold-blooded assassin was gone as a simple man stared at his dying friend. She prayed that he wouldn't do anything foolish.  
  
Trent could feel the urge to throw back his head and begin howling his despair. It would have been so easy to just let his sorrow out, but he was who he was. An elf, an assassin, and a hunter. Screaming like a dying lamb was not a part of any of those. He was an elf. He would endure. He would suffer, and he would mourn, but he would do it on his own terms. He allowed himself a small, eternally sad smile as he watched Leylia cry. "You did it, my friend. You finished your quest."  
  
Woodchuck shook his head at the display. He'd miss the old dwarf, but they'd never been all that friendly. Oh, he was sorry, but they were sorrier. They should be the ones who could mourn.  
  
Thief...  
  
Woodchuck frowned at the mental voice. Looking around, he paused as he saw Karla's circlet. Pity that thing's cursed. Looks like its worth a lot...  
  
Karla's soul smiled as Woodchuck began staring vacantly. She would never die. She had endured for a long time, and she would continue to endure, because weakness would never end.  
  
--------  
  
Leylia gazed at the cairn they had erected for Ghim outside of the castle. "Oh Ghim...why did you come? Why did you bother?"  
  
Deed hesitantly touched Trent's shoulder. She hadn't seen so much as a muscle spasm in his face since Ghim had died, and she was starting to worry. She didn't think for an instant that suicide was beyond him; someone had to take care of him. Preferably her, as opposed to that WAY too interested female who'd defected a few weeks ago.  
  
Trent startled her by grasping her hand. "I'm going to miss that grumbly old fellow." He sighed. "But there's a lot I have to finish before we'll get to meet."  
  
Etoh sighed as he watched, then paused, frowning as he looked around. "Wait a minute. What happened to Woodchuck?"  
  
--------  
  
Miles away, a hooded and black-cloaked figure strode through a howling sandstorm. If you looked closely, you'd see a powerful, penetrating gaze in those eyes, as well as two scars; an x-shaped one on the chin, a straight one on the cheek.  
  
And a circlet on the thief's brows; gold, set with three stones.  
  
Karla had been defeated. It is wondered if she could ever truly die. 


	9. Fantasia, Chapter 09

Chapter Nine The Demon Dragon  
  
With the death of Beld, Marmo had been plunged into bestial anarchy; thought had died in the skulls of the creatures of the island, resulting in a perpetual struggle of ruthless survival of the fittest.  
  
Ashram held Soul Crusher, making him the heir to the throne of Marmo. However, the demon in the blade would only allow itself to be wielded by one stronger than it. Ashram's strength was something that even his most bitter enemies respected, and he could tame the sword. However, it would only allow this after it had been proven.  
  
And none of this could have suited Wagnard better.  
  
Nyara frowned as she regarded the strange priest. A dark elf female just as Pirotess, she had fairly similar looks; five foot four in height, perhaps a hundred pounds in weight, her figure was less voluptuous and a bit more athletic, none of that detracting from her appearance. Her eyes were a pale shade of blue, while uncharacteristically her hair was a bright, wheat blond.  
  
To normal and/or hormonal men of most species, she would have been quite attractive. At least if you ignored the black leather fetish she seemed to have, and her reputation for being a bit hard on the people around her.  
  
(As it was, none of that really matters. It just saves me the time of having to describe her somewhere later in the fic.)  
  
"A sacrifice?"  
  
Wagnard nodded. "Two life forces, bound in one ritual. One, the death of a dark elf of our own land to taint the blood towards our own ends. The other, the immortal soul of a high elf to awaken the vast power sleeping beneath us."  
  
Nyara started at that. "Beneath us...Kardis?!"  
  
Wagnard turned a solemn, if false face to the dark elf. He knew her one weakness, the only person in the world she even considered worth survival. "Do you think that Ashram can make Lodoss his as things stand now."  
  
Nyara winced at that. She would have loved to say that he could, but she wasn't 100% sure. Certainly, he would have a better chance than Beld.  
  
And once he was the emperor, he'd certainly need an empress...  
  
--------  
  
Atop the minarets of Castle Conquera, Ashram stood waiting. Covered totally in his black armor, he seemed unchanged from the diamond-hard general of the war, save one important thing.  
  
Now, he was king.  
  
Soul Crusher stirred restlessly in his grasp. Beld had been a perfect wielder; dark, insane, jealous, and easily manipulated. Ashram? He was far too proud, to pragmatic. He would never allow himself to be ruled by what he considered a mere weapon. HE would master it, make it the manipulated. And the demon was beginning to worry that he would succeed.  
  
Time for another test. Even if the demon didn't like being controlled, if it had to be its controller would be capable of using it, or else. The demon began calling to the wraiths that flocked to the dark island like vultures to a carcass. Soon, they had begun to coalesce into a single, great mass of the dead.  
  
Ashram eyed the growing mass, summoning the demon's power. He knew how powerful the sword was, and more importantly how grudgingly it was giving him power. Wrathfully, he yanked forcefully on the mental reins that gave him the demon's strength, drawing more to him.  
  
The wraith, ignoring the power build up, began circling the outwardly motionless warrior, then dove for him.  
  
Firming his grip, Ashram drew the sword back and slashed home as the ghost streamed around him. The demonic blood rage fought and severed the wraiths's link to this world, forcing it back. Still, it was no simple task to 'cut' apart ghosts like that.  
  
Having succeeded, Ashram allowed himself to collapse to his knees, panting at the exertion as he used the sword to brace himself. He considered glaring at the blade, but decided against it. The sword was similar to himself; it would follow with loyalty, but only after it had decided that the one it followed deserved it.  
  
It would learn, soon enough.  
  
"Can you really master it in time?"  
  
Ashram and the blade simultaneously glared at the interruption; neither one liked, appreciated, or trusted the skeletal priest.  
  
Wagnard smiled as he walked towards them. "Is it really so easy to master Soul Crusher, the sword that was bathed in the blood of the demon himself?"  
  
Ashram allowed his glare to grow colder. "What do you want?"  
  
Wagnard ignored the icy glare, walking towards the edge of the balcony. "In the far northwest of Lodoss lies Demon Dragon Mountain, home to Shooting Star, the demon dragon and the most powerful of all the Ancient Dragons. In his cave, he guards a great treasure, as well as the greatest weapon of all, the Scepter of Domination."  
  
Ashram's eyes widened as he stood up. Even he knew of that weapon; supposedly, it had been held by Falis himself as the ruler. Not even Falaris, the god of all darkness and night had dared to attack until after the scepter had been entrusted to a power for guardianship. "Such a thing..."  
  
Wagnard turned politely helpful. "Is vital to the conquest of Lodoss, is it not?" He began stalking past calmly enough. "He who holds the scepter of domination rules all of Lodoss." He paused before leaving. "You would do well to remember that."  
  
Ashram forced himself back to his feet. "The scepter..." He turned back to the sky, calling the sword for power once more. He was enough of a realist to know that he stood no chance against a creature powerful enough to be trusted with guarding the scepter of Gods. Not unless he became the true Master of Soul Crusher. Training would continue.  
  
Just outside the entrance to the balcony, Wagnard grinned. Oh yes, it wouldn't take long at all.  
  
--------  
  
Pirotess sighed deeply as she watched the battles continue. "For god's sake, what is it with these humans? They've lost thousands in a war less than two months ago, their enemy has absolutely no chance of possibly counter-attacking for decades, and they're still fighting?"  
  
Deed sighed as she watched Trent polish off another opponent who was convinced his armor made him the God of War. "I know, I know. It's just that they're worried. Worried humans generally don't think very well."  
  
Pirotess couldn't really disagree. It had been almost three months since the war ended, about nine weeks since Karla had been dealt with. In the time, she and Deed had managed to go from confrontational to civil to acquaintances to almost friends. It helped to no small extent that not only were they the only two elf females for probably two hundred miles around, but their mutual attraction to Trent was certainly another link.  
  
She paused as a new opponent came forward. "Well, this should be interesting."  
  
Deed blinked in confusion as Kashue stepped forward, giving Trent a piercing grin. As usual, the king was dressed in his gray full-plate armor, a buckler on his left arm and broadsword in his right. Trent was also typically dressed in the black long coat and clothes that he almost slept in; as it was, the only time that either could recall him in anything else was that odd robe during the ball when they'd first arrived in Valis.  
  
Kashue grinned as he regarded the elf warrior. "I thought we came to an agreement, Trent. You're not fighting like that, are you?"  
  
Trent shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "I didn't think that I'd be fighting you. Besides, what you want will take a while to prepare for."  
  
Kashue shrugged, equally nonchalant. "I don't mind waiting. You could probably use a little rest, anyway."  
  
Trent glared at him tiredly. "I will get you for this. Just so you know." He turned, sheathing his katana as he went into the weapon's salle.  
  
Deed turned in confusion to the dark elf female. "What's all that about?"  
  
'Tess shrugged. "I haven't the faintest idea."  
  
Five minutes later, Trent came back out.  
  
Jaws dropped.  
  
He'd taken off his jacket but not the black pants and shirt he always wore. This wasn't the stunning part. What shocked the people who at least knew OF him was that he was dressed in half plate armor. Specifically, the half plate armor of a Holy Knight of Valis.  
  
The armor was all gleaming, mirror-polished steel. Silver and faint lace- work gold glittered along edges, a cruciform imbedded in the chest of the breastplate. Shoulder guards and greaves finished it out, while a long, crimson cloak with a golden cross on the back hung from his shoulders.  
  
Trent glared at Kashue as he shrugged the armor around, trying to get it to lie comfortably. "One last time, WHY are we fighting like this?"  
  
Kashue shrugged. "I'm rather sure that the time will come when you can't just go into battle with simple cloth. You need armor, and you'll need to learn how to fight in it."  
  
Trent rolled his eyes as he drew a broadsword; he couldn't fight with his katana in this clunky stove, so he'd opted for the traditional weapon. "In case it's escaped your notice, my defenses are centered around killing the opponent so fast they can't counter."  
  
Kashue shrugged again as he took a ready stance. "To each his own."  
  
Pirotess stared at him as he began sparring with Kashue. After watching how effortlessly he could avoid the attacks of damn near anything else during the war, it was quite a switch seeing him stump around, jarring himself as he blocked the sword strokes with his shield, making occasional counter-attacks. In fact...she giggled despite herself. "He looks like a golem or something, clomping around in that plate."  
  
Deed managed to maintain her dignity for all of eight seconds before she joined the dark elf in laughter. "True, but if nothing else you have to admit that he looks kind of impressive in that armor."  
  
Pirotess shrugged. "I suppose, but he certainly doesn't look happy in it."  
  
Trent grimaced as he fended off another attack of Kashue's his counter- thrust trimming a few whiskers from the desert king's beard. The next exchange had Trent disarmed for a few moments. Rather than concede the defeat, he dropped his shield, ducking under Kashue's next strike and simultaneously knocking his feet out from under him. Not as easy as it looked, incidentally.  
  
Trent shook his head in disgust as Kashue levered himself to his feet, frowning. "Don't you dare try and tell me that a true knight shouldn't stoop to such attacks or something like that. And don't tell me that it's a good trick that will never work in a real battle, because I'm well aware of that. Besides, I never wear armor in a real battle, so stop already."  
  
Kashue rolled his eyes. "What do you have against armor, anyway?"  
  
Trent shrugged as he began to divest himself of the cumbersome steel. "I don't see the point. I remember hearing somewhere that the problem with armor is that you start relying on it, and if you're unarmed it can be dangerous. Not the real reason, but a good point." He sat down to start tugging at his greaves as he continued. "My real reason is that my training has always emphasized putting yourself in positions where you don't need it; make it impossible for your opponent to attack you first."  
  
Kashue grimaced as Trent retrieved his normal armaments for a continuation of the fight. "And when that doesn't occur?"  
  
"Second part of my training your majesty." Trent sighed blissfully as he slipped his katana into its back sheath. "Move fast enough that there attacks look amateurish." He drew his short sword and dagger, gesturing with the tanto. "Another match?"  
  
Kashue was spared the indignity of Trent's further sarcasm by a rider charging into the courtyard, screaming at the top of his lungs.  
  
Kashue's eyes widened as the rider tumbled off his horse, badly injured, and suffering from severe exhaustion. "What happened? Out with it man!"  
  
The courier stared listlessly at the king. "The dragon...Shooting Star..."  
  
The desert king was far from the only one to feel his blood run cold at those words. "Shooting Star...?!"  
  
--------  
  
The beast was enormous.  
  
No one was foolish enough to try and measure the demon dragon, but it was estimated that he was over four hundred feet in length, weighing thousands of tons. The vast demon dragon was a terrifying sight; his red scales were the size of a cottage's roof, inches thick of solid steel-like material. The horned head was perpetually creased in a grin of malevolence, only partly due to the jaw's build. Shooting Star, the red demon dragon was unquestionably evil.  
  
Villagers in the desert villages paused in their daily lives as a cloud seemed to come over them. Pauses turned to screams and flight as the cloud ignited in hellfire hot enough to scorch bone clean of flesh in mere seconds. Acrid smoke of burning thatch and the reek of human meat filled the air as the demon dragon roared in triumph, lording over its strength and its kill...  
  
--------  
  
Slayn's eyes snapped open. Panting and sweating, he stared in the direction of his table, seeing something he had never imagined possible.  
  
Shooting Star had reawakened.  
  
He paused as he heard a knock at the door, composing himself as Leylia entered. He smiled genially at the young woman as she entered, dressed in flowing white robes. "The raiment of a priestess of Marfa...it suits you." He smiled sadly as he noticed the wooden comb topping her long ponytail. "I think that Ghim would have approved."  
  
Leylia bowed her head in silent memory of the dwarf, trying to ignore the memories of Karla killing him.  
  
Slayn sighed as he returned to his thoughts, sparing a few moments to wonder how this slip could have been a witch. Ghim hadn't been lying when he'd told Slayn that he had no idea who Leylia was. Now he knew; she was a gentle, kind, and very sad young woman. Karla had been a cyst on the face of the world.  
  
Leylia swallowed, composing herself. "Slayn, what are your plans now?"  
  
The mage sighed in the apothecary he'd been given by Fiana. Not every mage can boast that the queen herself gave him a permanent residence in Castle Roid. "I don't know. All I know is that the dark cloud that seemed to come over Lodoss during the war has not yet lifted." He stared out the window. "Even now, threats remain. Threats that make Karla and Beld seem as nothing."  
  
--------  
  
Wagnard frowned as he continued reading his ancient books, looking for clues. The ritual was strange, but fairly simple. Apparently, one of his predecessors had invested quite a bit of time and effort to make sure that if it was done, it would be done properly and with minimum difficulty. Nice to find someone who was just occasionally helpful.  
  
He paused as he sensed a presence resolve itself behind him in the pillars surrounding the area. "Who's there?"  
  
The figure proved to be a scruffy-looking human male in his late thirties, pale skinned and black-haired. He was dressed in a long black cape and a violet long-tunic, incongruously wearing elbow-length black satin gloves. Wagnard frowned at the figure. He'd never seen him in his life, but there was something familiar about the ornament... his eyes widened. "You?!"  
  
The figure raised a hand in a somewhat positive gesture.  
  
Wagnard snorted disdainfully. "I see. Your eternal soul needs a body to exist." Taking in the scarred and battered appearance, he felt compelled to add, "apparently any trash will do."  
  
"I am Karla," the man who had once been Woodchuck said. "I have no body; I am eternal."  
  
Wagnard chuckled at that, the chuckle swiftly building into a full-throated cackle of evil-genius (TM). "Perhaps you are. Still, even you are no match for the power sleeping beneath the my feet!!!!"  
  
Karla jerked forward as crimson light began streaming from his form. "Kardis?!"  
  
Wagnard's cackle continued. "Not even a seven-hundred year old witch can match the power of Kardis the Destroyer!!!!!"  
  
Karla frowned at him. She wanted to preserve Lodoss. The last thing she needed was the ressurection of the Goddess of Destruction. Still, at least for now Kardis was vesting an interest in the wizard priest, and protecting him too strongly for her to do anything but retreat. "Be wary of this path you have chosen, Wagnard," were her only words as she faded away.  
  
Wagnard disdained her. There were powers greater than Kardis, ones that even she would obey. Then HE WOULD RULE DESTRUCTION ITSELF!!!  
  
(cackle, cackle, bwahahahaha)  
  
--------  
  
Trent paused as he watched Kashue continue re-arming himself for the ride back to Flaim. "So now what?"  
  
Kashue strapped on his broadsword, slinging his blue cape across his shoulders. "I have to return to my people."  
  
Trent nodded. "When do you leave?"  
  
Kashue turned to stare at him coldly. "That is no concern of yours. You're not going anywhere."  
  
Trent laughed openly, and it wasn't a pleasant one. "What, you think you can stop me?"  
  
Kashue paused. "No," he said, "I know that you'll do what you want." He turned to leave. "So I'm going to ask you as a friend not to try and fight Shooting Star. This is a matter for the nation of Flaim."  
  
Trent glared at him. "Shooting Star, the demon dragon, the most powerful living being in Lodoss. You think that one desert nation could possibly be enough? You honestly think that your nation is the only one in trouble if he gets good and pissed? You rile up Shooting Star, and the only thing that's going to be left on all of Lodoss is ash."  
  
Kashue paused. "It is my duty to fight Shooting Star. That's all that matters. Good-bye."  
  
--------  
  
Trent brought his flute away from his lips after a fairly short (compared to what he normally did) self-concerto. Partially because the song was done, mostly because certain people had come by who would most likely try to distract him.  
  
"I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it, Trent."  
  
Deed grimaced at the thoughtful dark elf. Actually, brooding, sullen, or pouting seemed a bit more appropriate to her at the moment, but she wouldn't actually say that. "He just doesn't want you harmed."  
  
Pirotess rolled her eyes from further up in a tree at Deed's assurances. "You're joking, right? Why would Trent need protection?"  
  
The elf in question closed his eyes as they seemed a bit more inclined at the moment towards bickering. His own thoughts were turned to his father. According to Fahn, Kale Shadowlight had died fighting against Shooting Star. That didn't actually bother him quite so much; he'd suspected for years that his father had died at the hands of other dark elves or humans; to find out that he'd actually died fighting a losing battle against a raging force of destruction and had done fairly well up until the end made him feel a little bit better about his father dying. Not much, but a little.  
  
It was the fact that his father had done well that bothered him. He knew just how strong and skilled his father was, or at least he thought he did. So how the devil had a dark elf ranger armed with the highest quality unenchanted swords possibly fight an ancient dragon?  
  
He sighed, watching the arguments continue for awhile. "Listen, I'm alright, okay? You don't have to worry so much."  
  
Pirotess gave him an arch look but accepted that for the time being. "Alright, if you say so." She gave him an odd look. "If you're alright, then why are you still so deep in thought?"  
  
Trent considered for a moment, then decided to go ahead and tell her. "Before the last battle, King Fahn told me something about my father I'd never known before."  
  
Deed calmly waited as he paused. "And..." she finally prompted, as he seemed content to let them hang.  
  
"And apparently, my father fought with Shooting Star thirty years ago, and beat him badly enough to keep him in his den up until now."  
  
Dead silence.  
  
Finally, Deed asked. "What did your father do for a living?"  
  
Trent sighed. "That's just it. My father was a ranger; not as good a fighter as me or my mother, but still good enough to trounce just about any other opponent. So how the blazes did he do it?"  
  
Pirotess shrugged. "Um...maybe he caved in a part of the mountain to seal the dragon in?"  
  
Trent slowly turned to her. "My father was a dark elf. He had maybe two hours in the den. Do you honestly think he could shift enough rock in that time to trigger a cave-in capable of sealing off a four hundred foot dragon?" He took her silence for answer enough. "Mom didn't know all that much about him either, but he was no mage. He wasn't an engineer or anything either. It just doesn't seem possible that he could have fought and beaten an ancient dragon, and I'm trying to figure out how he did it."  
  
Deed shook her head. "I don't think that's possible, unless you didn't know something about your father. She shrugged helplessly. "I can't imagine what would have given him that kind of advantage, but he must have had something."  
  
Pirotess scooted closer to him, dropping down a few branches. "Why are you so worried? Are you actually going to try and fight him?"  
  
Trent sighed. "I don't know. I don't know what I'm going to do, and I don't know what my father was capable of. All I do know is that I'm something other than a dark elf. I don't know what I am completely, and it scares me."  
  
--------  
  
Etoh ran out of the castle as Kashue prepared to leave. "You majesty! What did you say to Trent?!"  
  
Kashue sighed at the young priest. Honestly, he did kind of like the dark elf, as well as the priest, but the constant attention that he drew (despite his best efforts to prevent it) got irritating after a while. "To fight his own battles."  
  
"What?!"  
  
Kashue just grinned at that. "Take care, Etoh!"  
  
--------  
  
Elsewhere in Roid, two almost-familiar faces were watching the comings and goings of the huge city.  
  
Shiris sighed as she looked around. "So this is the capitol of Valis, huh? Kind of dreary if you ask me. Not what I expected."  
  
Orson gazed around as well. "Give them time. They've lost their king; its only to be expected that they would need time to heal."  
  
"I suppose you're right." She continued scanning the crowd intently.  
  
Orson allowed himself a very small smile. "Looking for anyone in particular?"  
  
Shiris turned to him in surprise, fighting down a blush. "N-n-no, of course not." She turned to the side to continue watching, resolutely ignoring him. Okay, the elf was handsome. Obviously not stupid. Had some serious connections to extremely powerful royalty. That didn't make him attractive. Certainly not. She'd been telling herself that for some time, and had almost started to believe it.  
  
A figure slipped past them. They couldn't tell a thing what with the huge rain cloak the person wore, nor the other four who joined him shortly thereafter. Then again, this was a bit suspicious considering that there wasn't a cloud in the sky.  
  
Shiris turned to Orson in question. He nodded. He'd managed to see just enough of how they walked to recognize the elvish blood. More to the point, they'd learned a little bit about Trent. Specifically that he was a VERY wanted criminal to them.  
  
--------  
  
Deed sighed as she played with some of the native birds. She had found this place weeks ago, some kind of water garden. She had recognized instantly that it hadn't been built by Valis; a ruin of Kastuul. For all its age however, it was somehow in immaculate shape.  
  
The overgrown forests and vines gave the place a primeval look, enhanced by the large, crystalline blue lake. She gazed at the budding flowers in tree and shrub, the greco-roman gazebo in the shallows of the lake, the dancing tree sprites that came at her touch. If nothing else, it was a beautiful place.  
  
An almost inaudible whisper of steel broke her from her trance as she leapt to the side. The weighted end of a chain struck the branch where she'd been sitting, only to recoil like some kind of striking viper. Landing lightly, she was forced to jerk to the side as throwing daggers imbedded themselves in the trunk. Deciding on the value of discretion, she drew her rapier as two dark elf men resolved themselves in front of her.  
  
Grimacing she began dodging and leaping as they faded in and out, the chains's rattling the only warnings she had as they struck at her.  
  
Why now? Why are all these dark elves coming out of the woodwork NOW?  
  
--------  
  
Pirotess's eyes widened as the cloaked figure threw back her hood. "Nyara?!"  
  
"Oh, you remember me?" The dark elf smiled. "So good to see you again my dear. Now then, will you be coming back with us?" The saber she preferred appeared in her hand. "We can always take you back, if you refuse."  
  
Pirotess grimaced as she began inching her hand towards her rapier. Serves me right for running off into the forest like this.  
  
Nyara sighed mockingly. "Oh dear, you're going to refuse?"  
  
"Please," Pirotess broke in, "no stupid comments. Just fight me already."  
  
"That's your problem, you know. You have no appreciation of the art of speeches."  
  
Nyara proceeded to grant at least one request by shutting up, though her price proved to be a rather open attempt to brain Pirotess.  
  
The dark elf dodged desperately out of the way as the three began attacking her. She spun, hurling a pair of throwing blades at the two dark elf men accompanying Nyara, but they faded out easily, leaving her to continue parrying Nyara's direct attacks. She could have beaten Nyara eventually in a one-on-one fight, or either of the men (she didn't recognize them off the top of her head), but the problem was that dark elves are notorious for shifting the odds in their favor. The worst part is that if positions had been reversed, she knew without a doubt she'd do the same thing.  
  
Contrary to popular belief, out-numbering your opponent isn't dishonorable or dirty fighting, it's just good tactics. At least as long as all you're trying to do is kill or capture an opponent; go for anything else and then it gets dirty.  
  
Pirotess lunged forward in a vicious thrust, only to have Nyara duck and leap out of her path. Over-thrusted, fool! Her temporary gaff was enough for one of the two men to catch her wrists with a chain and jerk her towards one of the oak trees in the forest they'd inadvertantly chosen as their battle ground. The second hurled a pair of chains at her, binding her to the heavy trunk.  
  
She glared at them as Nyara smiled mockingly at her. "Oh dear, it seems you've allowed yourself to get rusty. However could that have happened?"  
  
Pirotess sighed in disgust. "Can you stop simpering and begging for all of five minutes? Just kill me and get it over with. I've fought you before, and I know that the only reason I lost is because of your two little slaves over there. So stop getting a puffed head you moronic cow, and finish what you started."  
  
Nyara glared at her. "That wasn't nice, you know."  
  
Two scalpel-shaped blades slammed into the chest of the farthest away elf, another two striking a seam in the chain with enough force to snap it open. It proved to be enough to allow Pirotess to jerk the chains until they fell off her.  
  
Nyara lunged for her, but Pirotess had already gone to ground. "Hurry up!" she snarled at the other male, leaping after her. He didn't make it more than ten feet before he'd been completely perforated by another trio of scalpel-shaped blades.  
  
Trent allowed himself a mild grin as Nyara twisted desperately out of the way to land on a new branch. As a rule, dark elf women were a lot nastier than the males. Not by nature or anything, it was just that dark elves had a matriarchy for a society; dark elf women were encouraged to be bitches and tyrants. "That wasn't intended to be nice." He paused. "At least I'm fairly sure it wasn't. It's been awhile; that could be a compliment in Marmo for all I know."  
  
Nyara stared in absolute horror. "Shadowlight?!"  
  
"Oh you know me?" Trent waved jauntily. "I'm honored, really I am. Anyway, I'd love to introduce you to my last three scalpels, but I think I'll need them for your other friends. Run along now, little girl."  
  
Nyara glared at him hatefully, but knew better than to try. She'd always assumed the stories about the legendary assassin were over-done, but she wasn't sure. Besides, she had it reliably that he was good enough to fight Ashram to a stand-still, and she KNEW that she wasn't that good.  
  
Trent shook his head as she ran off. He quickly turned to the non- homicidal dark elf woman at his side. "Come on, we don't have a whole lot of time."  
  
Pirotess blink-blinked in shock. "Um, she's gone. Why not?"  
  
Trent grabbed her hand, yanking her into a fireman's carry. "There are two more of them in the forest. They're going after Deed."  
  
Pirotess eeped as she was yanked into his arms, but she wasn't complaining. Even if it was to go deal with miss lighter-than-thou-art.  
  
--------  
  
Deed gasped as a throwing blade scored a mark on her thigh. She barely managed to leap out of the way of the next chain strike. In midair, the dark elf changed his attack strategy from snapping his chain like a whip to clubbing her with it. The lateral strike scored on her back, knocking her into a tree limb long enough for more chains to bind her securely to it.  
  
Aledha panted as he landed next to her. She'd been a tough fight to bind down; if it had been to the death, they might have won, but this? Who knew?  
  
Vok turned to his erstwhile leader. "What do we do with her now?"  
  
Aledha fumbled around for something in his belt-pouch. "We're to rendezvous with Lord Ashram at Fire Dragon Mountain."  
  
Deed's eyes widened, but she held her peace. So they're the reason for him stirring. Closing her eyes, she began whispering cantrips to Sylph. She needed out, and more importantly needed to warn Valis...among others.  
  
Vok frowned. "Wagnard told us to bring her and the dark elf straight to the temple."  
  
Aledha shrugged. "Nyara left orders that we are not to even consider going anywhere other than to lord Ashram. Orders are orders."  
  
Deed frowned as they continued discussing what to do with her. What temple? Why would they want me and Trent at some temple? She suddenly felt her insides turn to ice. No...that, that's impossible. They couldn't possibly... she swallowed around a throat gone dry. She had a brief flashback to Slayn warning them that it wasn't over. If her fears proved true, it could be over, in the most total sense of the word, in mere days.  
  
--------  
  
Trent gave Pirotess a slightly more uncomfortable look as he continued his head-long rush towards the forests. "Um, can you start running on your own now?"  
  
The she-elf blushed faintly. "Oh. Sorry." Actually, she'd been quite comfortable in his arms and against his chest. He was a lot more muscular than most of the elves she knew; still skinnier than a human, but it was rather impressive.  
  
Trent sighed in relief as she leapt out of his arms to start running alongside him. He could probably have carried her quite a ways; he wouldn't be as much use in the inevitable fight, but that wasn't the point. More to the point, he had been steadily getting more and more uncomfortable with her seeming to snuggle deeper into his arms as time went by. Had she gone any further in THAT regard...well, he would have been a bit more than less useful.  
  
"Where's the fire?"  
  
Trent slowed to a startled halt as he found the odd female mercenary he'd abortively fought a few weeks ago. "Huh? What the hell are you doing here?"  
  
Shiris grinned. "Oh, just here and there." She jerked a thumb over her shoulder. "Come on, she's this way. Orson's watching over her."  
  
Trent winced at the reminder of the berserker who'd come distressingly close to bisecting him in their fight.  
  
The wince became a bit more pronounced at Pirotess's sing-song questioning of who she was.  
  
--------  
  
Orson nodded to the elf as he, Shiris, and some other female elf joined him in the trees. "They've been arguing where to take her," he said without preamble. "One of them demands that they make for fire dragon mountain to rendezvous with Ashram, the other insists they head for some temple under a man named Wagnard's command."  
  
Trent shrugged. "I don't recognize the priest. I'll worry about their little plot after we rescue her." He loosened his katana in one hand. "'Tess, follow me down. I'm going to deal with the chains, you grab Deed."  
  
Aledha gave him a cold glare. "Look Vok, Nyara gave us strict orders. I'll grant that the priest is of higher rank, but answer me this; do you really want to know what Nyara's going to do to us if we disobey her?"  
  
The younger elf blanched as Aledha played his trump card. He was well aware of Nyara's little...preferences. He'd also seen first hand what had been left of the last person to defy her will. "Alright already, we'll go to the mountain."  
  
"No you won't."  
  
The two started as a black-clad figure dropped out of the branches above them. He spun laterally as he dropped, slicing cleanly through the chains binding their captive. As she pushed herself onto her hands, another figure dropped towards her, grabbing the high elf and carrying her down.  
  
"Shit!" Aledha hurled himself after the three of them, only to find Orson waiting at the bottom.  
  
Vok swallowed nervously as his leader got turned into a handful of meat strips. The nervous swallow progressed to somewhere just shy of losing bladder control as he recognized the aura he was facing. "Hy...Hyuri?!"  
  
Shiris grinned. "So even you guys are scared of berserkers? Can't say I blame you. Are you really sure you want to get him mad?"  
  
Vok cursed at her, but in the sibilant language of a dark elf, it kind of loses its impact. He disappeared into the forests, heading back towards Marmo; the priest would be a LOT more understanding, and might actually be willing to protect him for a bit.  
  
Deed turned to Trent. "They're..."  
  
"...at Fire Dragon Mountain, I know." He sheathed his blade as he stared after the dark elf's path. "We're going to help after all, it would seem."  
  
Deed considered for a moment telling him her fears, but let it slide. She was probably wrong. Dear gods, let me be wrong.  
  
--------  
  
If you looked carefully in the canyons east of Flaim, you could find a small knot of riders making for the volcanoes further north.  
  
Ashram stared straight ahead as new reports were made. "So Kashue is coming as well. It seems all of Lodoss now walks a single path, one not dictated by men."  
  
The tall, fierce stallion he rode abruptly stopped, pawing the ground and rearing anxiously. Asrham managed to keep it still after a few moments of its antics, but he was the only one; every horse in the small cavalry group was getting rapidly spooked.  
  
A four hundred foot-long reason chose that time to begin lazily soaring over the canyons. Ashram set his jaw, sending his horse plunging after it. Teeth bared, he whipped out Soul Crusher as he followed. Mere days ago he'd had to fight long and hard to make it obey. Now? Now the glows of the demonic power came readily to his call. He'd been accepted.  
  
Ashram's horse was considered the best in Marmo; he'd rode it when he was only the captain, and the leader of a war party needed a fast, reliable horse more than any king did. Still, there is no creature on land or sea that can match a creature of the air in full flight. It didn't take long for both horse and master to realize it was futile, and slow their headlong rush.  
  
"LORD ASHRAM!!!!" The knights had managed to whip their horses hard enough to over-come their fear of dragons, but it had been a near thing. "Lord Ashram, you mustn't endanger yourself like..." They froze as he raised the sword to stare at the blade.  
  
Ashram allowed himself a smile as he felt hungry licks of power from the blade. "So, you want the dragon's blood, do you. Can you sense a worthy foe? Demon Sword of Darkness?"  
  
The soldiers swallowed nervously as they watched him, all but the last figure in the column. Another of Wagnard's priests, he echoed the Black Knight's smile, though for reasons of his own.  
  
--------  
  
Farther to the east, five horses pounded their way across the sun-set lit desert; three elf riders, two human.  
  
Shiris grinned as they rode. "So, the demon dragon himself, huh? Hope we're not getting in over our heads."  
  
Trent shot back, "you don't have to come. Turn back any time you want to."  
  
Shiris laughed openly at him. "No way! Things are way too interesting around you people. Right Orson?"  
  
The berserker's only answer was a look back to his partner. Trent just shrugged. He wasn't quite stupid enough to pass up free help.  
  
Deed allowed her own horse to slow enough to come abreast of Shiris. "Thank you for helping save me back there."  
  
"Ha! An elf, being polite, there's a first." Shiris grinned to try and take the sting out of her words (as evidenced by Deed's pout.) "This is going to be quite the fight, isn't it?"  
  
Deed smiled warmly, directing her smile to the front of their group rather than the female mercenary. "Don't worry. Once Trent's found a path to walk, he's unstoppable."  
  
Unseen by any of them but Orson, Trent smiled at the comment. It had most likely been intended to be lost in the wind of their passage, but he'd heard all the same. And he would be lying if he said he disliked her attention. Something about the high elf seemed to warm the ice he'd armored himself in for so long.  
  
And for some odd reason, he liked losing that armor. 


	10. Fantasia, Chapter 10

Chapter Ten The Mountain of Flames  
  
The problem with living in a desert isn't the heat. Nor is it just the dryness of the air. A not so small part of the problem is the sand itself, and what it does to temperatures. Sand actually absorbs very little heat; a big part of what makes a desert so hellish during the day is that not only are you contending with the sunlight, but you also have to deal with all the extra sunlight and heat being reflected by the sand. Temperatures then plummet once the sun sets, due to almost zero heat being stored from the day. The long and the short of this paragraph is, you stand equal chances of dying in a desert from heat-stroke and hypothermia. Charming place, isn't it?  
  
Anyway, about the only time of day that a desert is bearable is about five thirty in the evening, when the sunlight is just low enough to keep it from being too hot. It can get a lot better outside of a desert, but you can't hope for a whole lot more than that.  
  
Ashid yawned irritably as the clouds began to gather. He couldn't figure out what the big deal was; sure, Shooting Star was damn near unstoppable, but why worry so much just now? It wasn't as though he hadn't been there for years, and he would continue to be there for years. So why bother?"  
  
Fezzik joined Ashid in cloud-watching for a few moments. "Think we'll get any rain?"  
  
"God, I hope so."  
  
Above, four hundred tons of scale and muscle soared between the upper and lower cloudbanks. Four hundred tons of scale and muscle which happened to be a bit irritated with all the attention that was being paid to his territory. Four hundred tons of scale and muscle which REALLY needed to let off some steam.  
  
And unfortunately, the eleventh foot brigade of Flaim was a convenient enough target for that frustration.  
  
In the six minutes it took for Kashue and his party to finish riding up, they were all but slaughtered.  
  
"Where the devil are all our reserve troops?!"  
  
Orson looked at the patches of black that had once been bone with a detached air that crossed the border on creepy. Ignoring the screams, he focused his hearing towards above for tell-tale whispers and gales. "He's coming back around."  
  
Despite everything that they'd been told about the creature, it wasn't even remotely enough to prepare those fighting for the reality.  
  
Shooting Star went far beyond big. If you want to have some idea of what going up against him would have been like, think of it like this. Take a Komodo dragon (a ten-foot long lizard of the south pacific). Multiply all of its size factors by forty, until its the approximate size of a World War II attack submarine. Now, give said lizard a really bad temper, the capacity for flight at subsonic speeds (if he tries), near invulnerability, the ability to breathe sixty foot wide gouts of fire capable of turning bone into ash in seconds, and a sadistic streak wider than the Gulf Stream.  
  
Now imagine that you're an earth-bound human in plate armor with a three foot long metal stick to fight it with.  
  
Yes, that warm feeling of a little trickle is indeed urine running down your leg.  
  
Most of the soldiers were either running into open ground or suicidally staying put in hopes of hitting it with the ballista and catapults nearby. Kashue's party chose the slightly more discreet path of running like hell into the nearest set of caves. Where they were forced to watch humans transform into six foot clouds of charcoal and dust.  
  
Trent turned to the mouth of the cave, yelling at the top of his lungs, "GET THE FUCK IN HERE NOW!!!!!!!!!"  
  
Fezzik had been one of the two or three that had survived the initial onslaught, and thankful for someone to tell him what to do so he didn't have to think, he turned and charged towards the cave.  
  
Banking lazily in midair, Shooting Star turned to the human who was fleeing in a sensible direction. Pausing just long enough to let him gain a bit of hope that he might actually make it, he sent a burst of flame at him as he made it within twenty feet of Trent's spot.  
  
Crouching their, Trent felt his hold on the assassin start to weaken as Shooting Star mockingly continued circling. The Thunder dragon they'd fought in the depths of the dwarves's great caverns hadn't angered him; it was too stupid to be cruel. This? The damnable lizard was actually enjoying itself. To hell with this.  
  
For the first time in quite a while, Trent chose to completely discard his reason as he gave the assassin free rein. Gathering his legs underneath him, he burst out of the cave to make a break for one of the remaining loaded ballista.  
  
"TRENT, ARE YOU CRAZY?! GET BACK HERE!"  
  
Kashue and Shadam interposed themselves between the two elf women as they prepared to charge after him. "Don't! It's far too risky."  
  
Trent easily cleared the ground to the heavy missile weapon. He didn't actually think that it would make any difference, but he could always hope. He grimaced in pain as he grabbed the firing lever; it had been heated a bit past his preferences, but when the assassin took hold it told pain to go take a hike.  
  
The dragon came by for a last pass at the twit who'd actually run away from cover to face him. Draconic jaws can't frown, but it tried as it saw him. He'd been around for eons; he had a long memory. And this elf was reminding him a bit too strongly of an old fight that had actually scarred him. He silently resolved to eat it rather than just torch it.  
  
Trent allowed himself a feral grin as Shooting Star continued his stoop. Perfect. Yanking back on the lever, he fired the ten foot arrow of solid metal at the great beast, then fell backwards into his own shadow to make a quick getaway.  
  
The arrow went for the beast's eye, but all it took to avoid damage was for Shooting Star to blink as it neared. Then, the gods chose to be nice for once, as the rainstorm that had been building for months finally broke, sending a few million volts of electricity into the pseudo lightning rod in the dragon's eye.  
  
It was not pleased; it was supposed to do the hurting, not the be the one hurt. Giving one last baleful glare to the encampment, it turned and flew away.  
  
Time was one thing it had. An infinite cruel streak was another.  
  
--------  
  
Nyara winced uncomfortably at the rumbling sound of Shooting Star returning to his den. The blasted place only stopped rumbling when the damned reptile was asleep, and even then it wasn't always one hundred percent reliable; minor tremors seemed to love this place.  
  
Ashram smiled quietly as the quiet returned. A creature Shooting Star's size didn't need food; at that kind of size, what could possibly feed it decently? No, its magic was far more than enough to keep it alive and well. Still, even an Ancient Dragon had to sleep. Now was his best, and quite possibly only chance. Loosening his sword beneath his cloak, he began stalking forward.  
  
"Wait."  
  
He paused, glaring irritably at the dark elf woman who'd chosen to tag along a few days ago. He'd recognized her as one of the random flunkies that populated the palace; a warrior, but not too good. "What is it?"  
  
"Our objective is just to retrieve the scepter, right?"  
  
Ashram nodded. "Which will be simple enough once it's dead."  
  
Nyara was hardly the only one to feel their jaw drop. "You don't mean..."  
  
Ashram smiled, drawing Soul Crusher. "This sword hungers for the dragon's blood. Far be it for me to deny it."  
  
Nyara sprang in front of him. "If you want to kill Shooting Star fine, but you'll need the scepter to do that."  
  
Ashram's smile slowly faded into a cold glare. He still didn't understand why she hung around him; he did nothing to encourage her presence. "You doubt my prowess?"  
  
Nyara winced at the unintended slight to his pride. "But..."  
  
"Stand aside."  
  
"No!" Beld was dead and Wagnard a theocratic fool; Ashram was the only real hope left for Marmo. "Only fools and goblins fight battles they can't win."  
  
Ashram's eyes roved to her left bicep, where one of Trent's throwing scalpels had cut a very slight scratch. "Did you know that something so minor as a scratch is enough to kill a person, if given the right conditions?" He stared her in the face. "A person who dwells in Marmo would do well to remember that."  
  
Nyara swallowed nervously, but backed down. She was smart enough to read between the lines; keep this up and she'd be considered expendible.  
  
--------  
  
Deed panted lightly as she charged towards the tent that she shared with Trent and Pirotess. The knowledge that he was sleeping in the same area with two gorgeous women had prompted some raised eyebrows and scads of gossip, but she frankly didn't care. Neither did Tess. Trent? He'd taken to sleeping on the floor in front of the tent's entrance.  
  
She paused as she noticed Pirotess scowling as she waited outside. Entering the tent, she found the reason for it. One she incidentally agreed with.  
  
Trent stared into space wordlessly as Shiris continued to bandage his hands. He'd worn gloves when he'd grabbed the heated iron of the ballista, but it was still enough for light burns. He didn't mind them all that much, but Kashue and Shadam had insisted.  
  
He blinked in shock as Shiris abruptly darted her face forward until it was within inches of his own.  
  
"You know, recklessness like that isn't a virtue." The she-mercenary backed away in thought. "Then again, it might be for you." Standing, she dusted off her hands as she joined him in thought. "Still, I can't help but get the feeling that that thing was just toying with us. Like we were just worms for it to devour."  
  
"Worms have lives too," Deed said quietly from the door, startling them. "The life of a human, the life of an elf, the life of a worm, or the life of a dragon; they're the same." She stared at them. "Life is life!"  
  
Trent sighed as he stood up to head for someplace alone. He paused at the doorway. "You know, some of the warriors were congratulating me on my courage back there. So have you and Kashue, Shiris. Would you mind stopping that?"  
  
Orson raised his head calmly as she blinked in shock. "Um...why?"  
  
A 'look' passed between Orson and Trent before he answered. "Courage is defined by my people as having fear, and ignoring it enough to continue functioning. Me? I just don't care. There's a difference."  
  
Pirotess sighed as he walked out. "Great. He's gone fatalistic on us again."  
  
Deed nodded. "He's facing something he doesn't think he can beat. Can you think of any other way he could feel?"  
  
--------  
  
Have you ever had the feeling that someone was trying really, really, REALLY hard to derail your plans? That you must have done something really bad in a past life for your current one to suck so badly? That the gods themselves are taking the time and effort to taunt you just out of pure spite?  
  
That has absolutely nothing to do with the story, I'm just curious.  
  
Anyway, Wagnard was considering starting in that general direction. "So, not only have you failed me to retrieve the elves, but now Nyara has gone haring off to the fire dragon mountain with Ashram?"  
  
Vok winced, but held his peace. It was basically true anyway.  
  
Wagnard unexpectedly laughed at him. "Dark elf in name, but in the end she's still a woman." It was of little concern to him; all this meant was that he'd get the scepter before he got those two elves he needed for his ceremony. The only question left was to wonder what to do with this stupid elf who'd brought him the news. Well, they did say to kill the messenger. "So, can you give me any reason to let you live?"  
  
Vok's head snapped up in shock. "Wha?! But my lord...!"  
  
"Baylos, almighty lord of fiery destruction, come forth. Baylos, almight lord of fiery destruction, come forth!"  
  
Vok barely had time to scream as his body exploded into a massive gout of fire, hot enough to burn everything beyond ash.  
  
Wagnard shrugged, and made a note to have someone come and sweep up what little was left. It wouldn't do to soil Kardis's temple, now would it?  
  
--------  
  
"Back door, huh?"  
  
Shadam nodded. "In the nation of Flaim, there is a legend of a dragon- slayer, the man who would free us from Shooting Star."  
  
Kashue chose to elaborate. After all, he's a main character, Shadam just a supporting one. He HAS to have more lines. "There are two entrances into Shooting Star's lair; the main one at the top of the volcano, and a small cleft in the mountain near the back. That was the one spoken of by the legend of the Dragon Slayer."  
  
Shiris eyed him speculatively. "So, we're going to sneak in to try and fight him? Sounds risky."  
  
"Certainly it's dangerous," Shadam said. "But unlike an all-out frontal assault, not suicidal. However, there is one last part of the legend that needs to be accomplished first." He leaned forward in anticipation. "Three lances that have been possessed by the power of Myrii, the god of war, should help us in our quest to defeat the dragon. The priests are forging them as we speak"  
  
Trent turned to Kashue. "I'm coming with you."  
  
Kashue paused, then abruptly dragged Trent out of his chair by the lapels of his coat. "You want to join us, fine. But no more stupid heroics, got it?" He was starting to get irritated with the elf, and the way he didn't seem to care about his current position was a bit unsettling.  
  
Trent calmly grasped Kashue's hand, then abruply yanked it over and around, using an elbow lock to break his grip and slam him into the table there. "No need to get antsy. Besides which, you're not my king." He released his arm and turned to walk away. "And for the record, my heroics are maniacal, not stupid."  
  
Kashue had picked himself up before that last, and found himself experiencing something he'd never even heard of in his entire life.  
  
A face-fault.  
  
--------  
  
Back in Tarba, Neese was watching her daughter and that odd mage with impeccably veiled amusement. Still, it probably would have been mildly inappropriate to start cackling at the looks being exchanged. Instead, she went for the inscrutable elder look. "So, you are set in your course?"  
  
Slayn nodded. "The witch Karla, the awakening of Shooting Star, this great war; they are related somehow. We must find out how and why."  
  
Neese nodded once, and turned to the side. Primarily because her face was starting to hurt from restraining her ear-to-ear grin. Still, she had her voice under control enough to speak a quick, "Marfa, give us strength."  
  
--------  
  
Shooting Star was not happy.  
  
He'd lived for eons; he'd actually fought alongside Falaris during the war of the gods, over twenty thousand years ago. Roughly eighteen thousand years after that, he'd been entrusted by the high sorcerers and theocrats of Kastuul to guard the scepter of domination, the ultimate force of magic in their world.  
  
They'd chosen perfectly; dragon's were too big and had too unwieldy fore- talons to use the blasted thing.  
  
They'd chosen him because he had been one of the only five dragons to survive the holocaust of the God's War. They'd assumed that because he was the cruelest and most vicious (something he took great pride in, incidentally), he was the strongest. So far, no one had ever managed to find out that Bramd the old hibernating wreck in Marfa's temple was actually the strongest. For dragons, especially the Ancients, age irrevocably translates to their raw power.  
  
Still, no dragon would ever challenge him; Narse and he fought for the same side, for all that the black dragon was disgusted by him. Eibra was a pansy; he was content raiding fishing boats off the coasts. Bramd was waiting patiently for a time when he'd have to fight again, nursing his strength for one last battle. Mycen? The golden dragon was probably his equal, but was too busy helping the dragon knights of Moss and ruling his own country.  
  
That left the red demon dragon a lot of time to lounge and sleep and hoard and laugh off petty attempts to kill him.  
  
Then that bastard had to show up and actually fight.  
  
The dark elf who'd come had been different; he'd been faster, stronger, and a hell of a lot smarter than most of the glory-mad twits who wanted to slay a dragon. And he'd come pretty close to actually succeeding after a while.  
  
In the end, he'd managed to wound Shooting Star severely enough that it had taken almost twenty years of hibernation to get back to full strength.  
  
It had been the first time in almost twenty thousand years that he'd been harmed, seriously. And then a new dark elf who reeked of his last nuisance had come and dared to hurt him again.  
  
The demon dragon spread his four scaly wings and prepared to lift off. He wasn't about to let him live again. He had blood to spill.  
  
Below him, Ashram withdrew his hand from across his face as the great beast flew off. Watching the swiftly shrinking form of Shooting Star as he flew off, he couldn't help but smile. Any moment now.  
  
He began climbing down towards the deeper reaches of the cavern, only to pause as Nyara chose to butt in once more. "Let me go with you."  
  
Ashram turned a tired glare to the leather-clad elf woman. She'd done nothing but complain and tell him how he didn't stand a chance of doing anything right without her help for the entirety of her stay, and he was getting to viscerally dislike her. "And when you get in the way?"  
  
Nyara dead-panned as she watched him. "Then kill me."  
  
Suited him perfectly.  
  
--------  
  
It had actually taken a lot less time than Trent had expected, but the three lances were completed. The priests had reverently given them to Kashue, who in turn had given one to Trent and the second to Orson. Peering along the length, he had to admit that they'd done a stunning job of forging; he could actually feel divine energies being radiated from the weapons.  
  
Kashue reverently gazed at his own lance. "Spear of Myrii, bite hard and bit deep on your foe. Let the bloodshed finally end with your strength." With no further preamble, the expedition began.  
  
As they continued further through the caverns, Trent's nerves started acting up. All over the place were scorch marks and gashes that hadn't healed in the rock; either Shooting Star got as tempermental in his own lair as he did in the deserts, or they were looking at something a lot older than the dragon.  
  
Shiris sighed as they walked along. For all the hype over the dragon hunt, this was becoming rather boring, just walking all over the place. She paused as they approached a cross-roads in the tunnels. She began heading for the left, only to be stopped by Orson's outstretched arm. Wordlessly, the berserker hefted a fist-sized rock and threw it into the middle of the tunnel, triggering a very nice small avalanche of rocks and stalactites.  
  
Kashue nodded. The legend had been clear on this. "Remember, sometimes the obvious path is the false one."  
  
"Meaning we head down there," Shiris asked, pointing past the fallen rocks.  
  
This proved a bit uncomfortable, as apparently steam vents had been located there, just in case the rock slide didn't finish intruders off.  
  
"Stay still!" Kashue barked as tendrils of steam whipped around them.  
  
Deed sighed in disdain, bringing her hands together in front of her chest. "Sylph, spirit of wind, lend us your strength. Let your power carve a path for those who love you!" Winds began rippling around her, causing the gouts of steam to sway away from them long enough for them to leap out of their epicenter.  
  
"Deed! Get out of there!" Trent bellowed  
  
The high elf winced as she struggled to maintain the spell. Her wind-based shamanism was her strongest gift, but she had limits, and maintaining a powerful spell of protection and moving was far from easy. In the end she managed to leap out of the steam, after summoning one final blast of wind to give her a little extra time.  
  
Back in the encampment, the look-outs started screaming once more as Shooting Star returned. Shadam took instant command in Kashue's absences. "Don't bother trying to fight it! Get under cover, immediately!"  
  
Finally, one of them chose to be intelligent and calm about the mess.  
  
--------  
  
Ashram frowned as they went further into the caverns, pausing as light began to shine from further into the caverns.  
  
He was slightly taken aback when he saw Shooting Star's hoard.  
  
Eric Dickinson wrote a book called 'the flight of dragons,' in which he described and explained certain things about the race. One of the things he explained was their prediliction for gold and treasure. The real reason is due to dragon's fire. Any traditional material used for sleeping on (straw, furs, pine boughs, or anything terribly soft) doesn't last long when the sleeper snores fireballs. The end result is that dragons prefer a bed made of various soft metals; specifically gold, silver, and platinum.  
  
Now just imagine that you're being confronted by enough gold and jewels to form a bed for a dragon that measures around two hundred fifty feet in length when lying down to sleep.  
  
Don't drool.  
  
Still, Ashram actually wasn't all that interested in the gold itself (though he was pretty much the only one there.) At the top of the hoard stood several huge chunks of cheap rock crystal spires; one specifically holding a long, slender objet carved from pure alabaster. Slightly more than five feet in length, the scepter was for the most part a simple shaft of white gemstone. The butt was scrolled and flared to form a cap, similar to the much larger one at the top. Around the orb that finished the top were scrolled lines of rune engravings, while immediately below were engravings of eight women standing and supporting the world, almost a Forcerian Atlas.  
  
"Wait," commanded one of the priests there as Ashram made ready to shatter the crystal chest. Bowing his head, he began intoning, "Divine power buried since ancient times, unleash thy might and let the barriers fall. Divine power buried since ancient times, unleash thy might and let the barriers fall."  
  
The crystal began flickering in a circle at one spot on the side. Cautiously at first, Ashram extended his hand through the crystal until he was able to touch the divine relic. As his hand touched, the scepter flared in brilliant white light, turning the crystal prison to simple motes of dust around it.  
  
Shooting Star froze in his hunt as he felt a great surge of mystical force emanating from the mountain. Cursing himself for a fool, the dragon turned to seek out its lair once more.  
  
Shadam stared in wonder as the beast flew off. "Lord Kashue...please, let your quest be successful."  
  
--------  
  
Unaware of...well, pretty much everything, Kashue stepped through the final cleft in the wall to reach the true part of Shooting Star's lair. As the six of them entered, Deed froze at the lip, her hand darting to her rapier.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
The high elf's eyes narrowed. "Someone else is here."  
  
Trent immediately started scanning the area, cursing himself for not bothering to scan for anything save the dragon. Come on, how much effort does it take to find a dragon THAT big?  
  
Cold, mocking laughter began echoing through the caverns. "Strange place to meet, isn't it oh Great Mercenary King?"  
  
Kashue's eyes widened. "Ashram?!"  
  
Trent snarled at the reminder. "So, the black knight's back. Knew it was too much to hope for that he'd die."  
  
"Ah, the elf is back." The black knight stepped out from behind the rocks, Soul Crusher in one hand, Nyara standing at his side.  
  
Trent winced as more knights appeared from around boulders. "What exactly are you doing here Ashram? Don't tell me you're here for the charming decor."  
  
Ashram laughed openly at him. "What if I told you that it was for the possession of Lodoss?"  
  
Trent unlimbered his katana. "I'd tell you you were an idiot. Fahn, Beld, Karla, Kardis, the sorcerers of Kastuul; everyone who tries that seems to come down with a serious case of dead."  
  
Ashram shrugged. "We'll see who dies then. Simple as that."  
  
The knights chose that moment to attack. There were five of them, not counting the priest of Kardis, Nyara, or Ashram, so in the end it was fairly even. Confident that his companions could handle themselves, Trent dodged a hacking attack to calmly disembowel his opponent. He turned lazily as Ashram chose to fight next. "So, you carry the Demon Sword now? I'm impressed. Guess that makes you emperor instead of just knight. Or have things changed since I left Marmo?"  
  
Ashram smiled. "You seem to have improved a bit since our last fight."  
  
The two dark warriors exploded into motion. Trent winced as the exchanges began with lightning speed. He'd been hoping that Ashram had been too busy trying to master the mystical parts of his new sword to improve in terms of pure skill. Wishful thinking, as he was driven back and forced to play defensively.  
  
His main weakness was his sword itself. He was still faster than Ashram and their relative strengths hadn't changed. The problem was that Soul Crusher could generate fields powerful enough to stop Trent's attacks, while the sword itself could break even his sabers.  
  
This proved enough to give Ashram a chance to disarm him within minutes of the start of their battle.  
  
Taking up where his last comment had left off, Ashram smiled. "But in the end, no match." His sword raised for the final blow.  
  
Thankfully he was distracted by the reappearance of Shooting Star.  
  
Who decided to herald his return with a gout of fire powerful enough to melt granite.  
  
Turning his attention to a far greater threat than the elf (come on, he's just an assassin), Ashram whipped out the scepter to try and calm him down. Instead, the mystical forces at work in the artifact completely deflected the fires, not even singeing his hair.  
  
Shooting Star glared balefully at the knight who'd dared to survive his attack, at least until he noticed the scepter in his hand. That kind of took away his options; he could hate the knight as much as he wanted, but he couldn't touch him, let alone attack him.  
  
Ashram smiled at the now obedient (if grudgingly) dragon. "So, the scepter commands the dragon as well? Hmmm..." staring down the massive reptile, he divided enough of his focus to begin summoning the full power of an only too happy to oblige demon within his sword.  
  
Nyara attempted to intervene, but the momentary distraction proved just long enough for Pirotess and Leylia to mutually impale her.  
  
Ashram grinned ferally as Shooting Star made several abortive snaps at him. It wanted him dead SOOOOOOOO badly, and it was helpless to fullfil its desires. Soon enough, it would be dead.  
  
Trent considered attacking him, but in the end decided that Ashram would be a far more cultured and beneficial dictator than Shooting Star, and as such was willing to let him finish off the demon dragon.  
  
Fate can be tricky at times. She's not a weaver as many people believe, or at least not a weaver of tapestries and threads of life. She's a story teller, a weaver of fact, fiction, and drama. Thus, when things didn't behave the way she wanted, she inserted what writers like myself call random plot devices. She's far from the only one to do this, but she was the one who did this time.  
  
The plot device in question was to alter the path of some of the deflected fire and such enough to trigger some structural weaknesses in the ledge that Ashram and Trent were standing on. Not much, but enough to make Ashram trip and lose his not-so-secure-in-the-first-place grip on the Scepter of Domination.  
  
Wagnard's priest pounced on the fallen weapon and leapt away with it. "The scepter now belongs to Kardis!" he crowed exuberantly as he disappeared.  
  
Trent winced as Ashram regained his feet long enough to start swearing. Now free of the scepter's compunctions, Shooting Star unleashed a massive surge of fire against the black knight.  
  
On impulse, Trent grabbed him and dove away from the flame blast. Not that running in a normal sense would have worked, but the fire did make some very convenient shadows that he could use.  
  
As it was the first time he'd ever teleported with a second person before, he had no way of knowing that if you weren't the shadow walker that it was the equivalent of having your nervous system ripped out and reassembled...well not that bad actually, but enough to give serious vertigo.  
  
Shooting Star growled low as his prey disappeared. He was at the moment torn whether he was more irritated with that too familiar dark elf or the black knight who'd had the gall to try and control him.  
  
His musings gave Orson his chance. During the fight, he'd been climbing up to the highest available ledge. Leaping off, he put his full weight and the force of a sixty foot fall behind his thrust, ramming the spear into Shooting Star's nasal cavity, one of his few remaining weak spots.  
  
It also gave Kashue enough time to charge and ram his own into the base of the dragon's neck.  
  
Not a good day to be an avatar of a force of unspeakable destruction.  
  
Ashram finally managed to collect himself as Shooting Star's throes started caving in his den. He turned to the dark elf. "Why didn't you just kill me?"  
  
Trent shrugged. "Eh, it's no fun if you just die because of a stupid rock- slide. You deserved to die in battle or as a king, something like that."  
  
Ashram gave him an odd look. "You don't hate me, do you?"  
  
Trent rose to his feet, retrieving his katana. "Not really. I respect you if nothing else, even if you are a ruthless murderer. Then again I'm an assassin, so who am I to talk?"  
  
Ashram rose to his feet, unsheathing his sword. "Get out of here. I'm not finished with that dragon yet."  
  
Trent froze. "Um, in case it's escaped your notice, you don't have the scepter anymore. Soul Crusher is strong, but do you honestly think that it's enough?"  
  
Ashram shrugged. "Perhaps not. But it's my choice. Now leave."  
  
Trent stared at him for a long moment; long enough for Deed and Pirotess to come to drag him away. As he left, he tossed his lance of dragon-slaying to him. "It might be useful." He bowed formally. "We might meet again, under the cloak of divine Falaris."  
  
Ashram blinked in shock at the formal farewell of the knights, then shook it off. So, the elf still follows darkness. Will wonders never cease.  
  
Pirotess gave him a thoroughly confused look as they ran out. "What was all that about? I thought you wanted to kill him."  
  
Trent shrugged. "Not really. I don't want him to have access to the power necessary to rule all of Lodoss, but as far as enemies go, he's one I'd rather have. He's a much better human being than just about anyone else I know who might dislike me."  
  
Deed sighed. "What you told him back there...you still worship the god of night?"  
  
"When I left the dark elf people, it was because of a disagreement with the ruling classes. That and their bad habit of turning men into harem slaves and/or far more degrading posts," Trent answered. "I never gave up everything that was a part of being a dark elf; I'm proud of who I am."  
  
As they ran off, Trent spared a last glance to the still fighting Ashram. "In the end, he was a worthy opponent, a man who didn't just earn my respect, he demanded it." He sighed. Rest well, black knight. May your fight be true, and your sword sharp. Or something of that nature. 


	11. Fantasia, Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven The Wizard's Ambition  
  
Trent was not exactly what you'd call a sentimental person. Nor would gentle really be immediately aplicable. That's the first impression that you'd probably get from him, and he does absolutely nothing to correct it. Heck, he works pretty hard to enforce it.  
  
And yet somewhere along the line, he did something right socially. He'd be damned if he could figure out what it was, but it had been enough to, for the first time in his life, cause some people to feel something stronger than mere tolerance for him. Actually, as near as he could tell it was quite a bit stronger than tolerance.  
  
As if that wasn't enough to rattle him, he'd started reciprocating.  
  
Which is why we currently find our not-so-righteous-or-Just-but-still- pretty-cool-hero standing outside the door to a room shared by an elegant young high elf and a decidedly curvier dark elf. Pausing, he extended his hearing to check their current status (he'd been doing it for the past forty five minutes or so.)  
  
Stabilized, slowed breathing patterns?  
  
Check.  
  
Quiet mumbling with absolutely no possible linguistic interpretation?  
  
Check.  
  
Two different tones for both of above questions, and thus two different people in there?  
  
Check.  
  
Conclusion? They were sound asleep.  
  
Slinking as quietly as he knew how to (and that's pretty damn quiet), he stepped into their elegantly furnished room. When they'd arrived in Kashue's capital city of Akrohd, he'd insisted that they be given the finest guest quarters in the palace. At the moment, Deed and Pirotess were stretched out on a pair of couches, resting from the ordeal of Fire Dragon Mountain and the ride back to civilization.  
  
Perfect. They'd possibly assume him, and probably guess him, but there would be no way to confirm.  
  
Pausing at the end table next to Pirotess's couch, he silently put down a single red rose. Pausing at at the table at Deedlit's couch, he placed a single white one. Where Kashue found roses in the middle of the desert was something he was still working on, but he wasn't exactly going to complain.  
  
Smiling at the two (since they couldn't see it), he turned and slipped away.  
  
Well, tried at least.  
  
"Trent?"  
  
He froze at the quiet voice, somehow being rendered incapable of running like hell as he would have preferred. Instead, he slowly turned to face the high elf.  
  
Deed smiled at him, pausing as she noticed the rose he'd left for her. Said smile didn't widen or brighten, but something happened to it. Trent wasn't 100% sure what, but it kind of scared him and turned his insides into some kind of mush simultaneously.  
  
Sniffing delicately at the rose, she said simply, "thank you."  
  
Trent's self-image ruthlessly forced the part of his head that wanted to start gibbering idiotically/nose-bleed fainting back into remission and proceeded to beat the tar out of it.  
  
Then Pirotess found her rose. Her smile as she picked it up was a bit less smitten and a fair amount...hungrier.  
  
For the seventh time in as many days, Trent thanked any and all gods he could think of for Deed being able to persuade Pirotess to start dressing in clothing that didn't 'display' her quite so much.  
  
"Is something wrong?"  
  
He started as Deed spoke up, giving him an arch look that told him that she was QUITE aware of why he was so nervous. He just chuckled nervously and kicked his autonomic system, screaming for a massive shot of adrenaline to get the (bleep) out of there before the overload of cute and sexy made him do something that he'd eventually regret. "Um...no, I'm fine." He smiled quietly, then turned to leave. "Better than I've been in quite a while."  
  
Outside the door, Shiris pushed off against the wall to stalk away.  
  
Orson paused in his contemplations as Shiris appeared in the courtyard. He gave her his trademark idle look. "What's the matter?"  
  
Shiris glared at him, then flung herself irritably onto the grass. "That's what I hate about you, Orson. You never know when NOT to talk." Sighing, she continued staring into the sky. "Orson, how long have we been together?"  
  
The berserker watched her as she lost herself in though, apparently not really expecting an answer. He just watched and waited, as he always did. In time she'd need someone to lean on, and he'd be there for her, as he always was.  
  
--------  
  
Kashue hid the glare he REALLY wanted to turn on his current scout. First that idiotic war, then Shooting Star, and now this. He must have really pissed off the gods in a previous life. "Something happening to Marmo?"  
  
The eye-patched and turbanned scout nodded from his deferential kneeling position. "Yes, it's as though the entire island were stirring." He paused, trying to collect thoughts that he'd have preferred to remain scattered. "With Beld and Ashram gone, we assumed that it would just become another darkened island. But now...it's almost as though the island itself is alive. The grounds there shudder and shake, as though some great force or beast were stirring beneath it. Even those demons and monsters that live there fear what's happening."  
  
Kashue was NOT a literary person. He was literate, spoke a few extra languages enough to know what a curse or death threat sounded like, and that was it. Still, he knew enough to have a few ideas of what this could mean. Specifically concerning the myths of Lodoss's and Marmo's creation.  
  
Even more specifically, a certain goddess who was supposedly hibernating under the island, waiting for a chance to strike.  
  
--------  
  
Consciousness began slowly returning to Ashram. He'd felt better, but miraculously he was fairly unmarked. He groaned quietly as he sat up, his head pounding. He could remember his battle against Shooting Star. Apparently, Soul Crusher was enough to deflect the demon dragon's fire if he tried hard enough. And he'd been quite motivated at the time.  
  
Their battle had ended, not with Shooting Star's death as he would have preferred, but with him being buried and sealed up in some cave in the bowels of the mountain. What with all the energies and raw forces pounding away inside the den, it hadn't taken long for him to get stuck here.  
  
"My, my. He's still alive. Will wonders never cease?"  
  
Ashram's eyes shot to the speaker as he grabbed the sword, spinning into a ready stance but leaving the blade sheathed. "Who's there?"  
  
The figure in the violet tunic and black cloak didn't answer, at least not his immediate question. "Did you truly think Wagnard one to share his power? He has no intention of following you."  
  
Both Sword and wielder snorted in disdain. "That is no surprise. Now answer me." As the figure remained silent, Ashram chose the slightly more blatant approach, drawing his sword completely, summoning its demonic powers.  
  
He was noticeably more impressed. "Soul Crusher...so, you've totally mastered it. I wonder, will it serve you against Kardis?"  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
"The scepter of domination...such power. I imagine that even Kardis would have to bow before it." The man who had once been Woodchuck leaned forward, smiling and revealing the circlet.  
  
Ashram was noticeably less than pleased. "YOU?!?!?!?!?!"  
  
"Go to Marmo, to the black palace. All of Lodoss moves towards there now. Including the elves." All-to-familiar mocking laughter echoed as she faded away.  
  
Ashram stared after the disappearing witch, but in the end chose to heed her words. Marmo was HIS land. His people. And Wagnard would be damned to the nine hells if he thought that he would get them for whatever twisted little games he had going through his sick little mind.  
  
--------  
  
Trent stared at a silent Kashue. "Oh, you had BETTER be joking."  
  
Kashue sighed. "We leave tomorrow to seek aid."  
  
Trent mentally gave composure a kick in the nuts. He'd earned a little bit of near-hysteria. "It has been all of two months since the war of heroes. Five weeks since we fought against Karla. Six DAYS since the fight at fire dragon mountain. And now you've decided that you have no remaining choice but to start up a new war with the Marmo, a damn-near crippled kingdom over a thousand miles away from your nearest border. WHAT are you smoking, or have you just gone completely insane?"  
  
Kashue gave the elf an odd look; he'd always gone for the coldly aloof, and now he was a bit...earthier. "We have no choice. Our scouts have been reporting something happening there, something that can't be ignored. We aren't even sure what, but it's endangering enough that we have no choice but to end this battle now."  
  
Trent mentally counted to ten. Then twenty. And eventually to sixty. "Would you care to tell me what you're so worried about?" he finally finished.  
  
Deed's answered eclipsed anything that Kashue could have said. "The Marmo have the scepter, don't they."  
  
"The scepter?" Orson asked.  
  
Deedlit nodded as she stared into the fires. "The Scepter of Domination, the ultimate artifact of magical power. Whoever holds it holds all of Lodoss in the palm of their hand."  
  
Kashue chose not to look back at them. "The legends of Lodoss's creation say that Kardis sleeps beneath Marmo."  
  
Jaws dropped in absolute horror.  
  
Trent stared. No, check that, he STAARRRRRREEEED. "Hold the fuck up. You mean to tell me that you think the 'something' happening on Marmo is supposed to be the goddess of psychosis, rage, madness, and destruction? THAT is what this is all about?"  
  
Kashue's silence proved to be answer enough.  
  
--------  
  
"MWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!"  
  
Yes, Wagnard is being presented with the scepter of domination.  
  
The altar of Kardis was not a pleasant place to be in, for all its austere beauty. The temple itself sat on the highest mountain of Marmo, perhaps a mile away from Castle Conquera. The building was in the same vague style as the Greeks and Romans of earth would build; a generally square building, ornately columned. For all that the dark goddess despised light with a passion that went beyond madness, the temple had been carved from the purest white marble, the altar within shale and slate instead. The altar floated atop a forty foot boulder over a yawning chasm stretching miles deep into the ground, to the very resting place of the mistress of destruction.  
  
Grinning like some kind of deranged skeleton, he hefted the five foot shaft of alabaster in both hands, his eyes glittering madly at the raw power he could feel coursing through the artifact.  
  
"Ancient power long since imprisoned, you who were eons-ago forged from chaos, become a shield to protect me..."  
  
Violet and Crimson lightning began to flare around him from within the altar, streaming around the priest to answer his spell. He laughed openly at the clawing, hungry energies. "Kardis! No need to be so impatient! OOOOHOHOHOHOHO! You'll be returned soon enough my dear."  
  
The lower priest of Falaris stared in shock as Wagnard forced the lightning under his control, using it as a catapult to hurl himself into the air, into a hunt for two elves within the living force of thunder itself.  
  
He prayed that power would not fall.  
  
--------  
  
In the central mountains of northwestern Valis, Leylia and Slayn continued their own journey. At least when they weren't drowning and strangling the forestlife around them under their syrupy, innocent sexual tension.  
  
Simple little things like Slayn offering the priestess his hand was enough to make the two of them blush.  
  
Granted, this is fairly reasonable if you consider the circumstances. Leylia was a devestatingly attractive woman. Plus, she had that odd kind of wounded air that not only aroused the...'other' instincts, it brought protective impulses to the fore as well. As for Leylia, she was still crushing herself under the guilt of what Karla had done through her. Any kind of support she could garner was something that she was a bit more than eager for.  
  
Slayn smiled as she helped her along the path. "If circumstances were different, I would have liked to speak the truth..."  
  
His next words were hidden under the rumble of a surge of lightning. That wouldn't have been too worrisome, but for three things. One, it was a clear, almost cloudless day; no cumulonimbus clouds to generate thunder. Second, lightning is usually incandescent white, its path causing pale blue and violet luminesence. It's not bright crimson. Finally, lightning normally doesn't travel parallel to the ground.  
  
Leylia stared in confusion at the blast. "What's happening?"  
  
Slayn on the other hand, was shaking in absolute horror at the thought of that much energy ANYWHERE. "It...it...it can't...be..."  
  
--------  
  
Pirotess favored Trent with a tired look. "So we're actually going to go to Moss anyway?"  
  
Trent shrugged tiredly; no one had gotten much sleep last night. And thankfully due to logistical and tactical discussions as opposed to anything of THAT nature. "I personally don't want to believe that Kardis is actually being ressurected or invoked; who could possibly be that stupid?" (somewhere in a lightning bolt, a certain red-robed priest felt an asthma attack.) "I just don't think that we have any real choice in the matter. Kardis ripped Lodoss off from the entirety of the Continent Alecrast in a dying breath; I don't want to even consider what she could do if ressurected."  
  
Shiris shrugged from nearby. "Well, see you around then. Orson and I are skimping out of this insane little fight you've concocted."  
  
Trent shrugged. "If I live, remind me to look you up. We'll probably meet sometime again, provided you don't turn evil or something."  
  
Shiris grinned at him, but it was a great deal less fierce than her old, slightly more possessive smiles. She turned to Shadam conversationally. "Good luck trying to get any help from Raiden. A free city with no kings; they couldn't care less about the outside."  
  
"That how mercenaries think?" Deed asked irritably.  
  
"Damn straight!" Wheeling, the two mercenaries took off. "See ya!"  
  
Kashue sighed as the two mercenaries rode off for the west. Turning, he and Shadam rode off as well; the king to the east, the captain north by northwest. The elves soon enough were pounding across the sun-bleached rock and sand to the northwest.  
  
Trent kept glancing back as they rode. There'd been a switch of sorts, him being the concerned one, Deed and Pirotess being the quiet, deep-in-thought ones.  
  
He was beginning to understand why so few people seemed to like that; it really WAS irritating. Which suited him quite well, but with those two? With those two it was worrisome.  
  
Reining in his horse and letting them continue to trot past him was enough to get their attention, if nothing else. Actually, it kind of startled them into nearly falling off their horses, which conveniently snapped them out of their little funk.  
  
Pirotess gave him a slightly irritated look. "What was that about?"  
  
"You're keeping something from me. And the handful of times you two caught me hiding something, I always talked. So you owe me. So spill."  
  
The two elf women were decidedly uncomfortable with the subject, but he did have a point. Deed opened the conversation as she climbed off her horse. "The Scepter of Domination...Marmo...and the attacks against Pirotess and myself. They're all connected somehow."  
  
"The ressurection of Kardis requires several things," Pirotess explained. "Only the Marmo can or would do it; her altar and resting place are miles below the bedrock of the island. And moer importantly, it requires a sacrifice of the lives of two elves; the immortal force of a High Elf's life, and the tainted spirit of a dark elf to draw that power into something she can use."  
  
Trent stared at them. "Those abductions..."  
  
"Were intended to acquire sacrifices for the ressurection." Deedlit sighed.  
  
"Wait a minute. If he's going through all the trouble of ressurecting Kardis, why does he need the Scepter? I mean, why go through all the trouble of fighting Shooting Star; he couldn't have wanted to get rid of Ashram THAT badly."  
  
"The scepter of domination was held by gods eons ago," Pirotess said quietly. "It was the irrevocable symbol of the Ruler of all Forceria; the war of the gods only began after Falis lost the scepter himself."  
  
Trent stared at her in shock. "Wait, that thing can control gods?"  
  
Further talk was forestalled by the crimson lightning I've mentioned so often in this chapter blasting into the ground at their feet. Wagnard grinned at the three elves, answering the unspoken portion of Trent's question. "Yes, even Kardis would have to submit to my power."  
  
Trent's standard modus operandi when faced by insanely powerful opponents with abilities that painfully eclipse his was to start moving as fast as possible, dodging and shadow-walking randomly to throw them off guard, making sarcastic comments when possible. The problem being that that only works when one is alone; not with two companions. So, he chose the expedious option, grabbed both around the waists, and started running like hell.  
  
This didn't work very well; Wagnard just started out by raising a circular stone wall around the three of them. It took all of a second for Trent to leap over it and keep runnning, but while he was fast, he wasn't quite THAT fast. In the end, he attempted his ace in the hole, dragging them through one of his shadow walks.  
  
He would have tried it sooner, but as he'd learned with Ashram, anyone who couldn't do it on their own didn't handle it very well; Pirotess looked like she'd just come to from a concussion, whereas Deed was wholly unconscious.  
  
Thus did running cease to be an option.  
  
Wagnard just laughed as he floated in next to him. "I suppose that I might feel impressed. Still, that's very little use against someone who will soon Rule EVEN THE GOOODDDDSSSS!"  
  
Yes, he's cackling with demonic, evil, insane laugh #6.  
  
Trent winced at the sound blasting his sensitive hearing. "Um, do you mind? That's kind of loud," he asked as he hurled his throwing stars at the priest.  
  
Wagnard ignored them as they bounced off his goddess-energized personal shields, chanting his own attack. "Omnipotent power, buried since the Ancient times, become a chain for those who oppose me."  
  
The blast violet energy met elven katana and started shoving him backwards. Gritting his teeth, Trent managed to swing his blade around far enough to send the blast out of effective range, just barely.  
  
Deed and Pirotess had regained consciousness a few minutes ago, and stared in absolute horror at the sight of Trent trying to face off the high priest of Falaris. This was far worse for Pirotess, as she actually recognized that he WAS a priest. "Wagnard?!"  
  
The insane one bellowed in his laughter. "Soon enough! Soon, the power will all be mine!!!!!!"  
  
The ground began rumbling at their feet, responding to yet further power from Wagnard. A circular cleft began spreading at their feet, then abruptly the ground started to distend itself, forcing the ground upward like some kind of pillar.  
  
Shock was no longer sufficient to convey Trent's current feeling. Ripping several thousand tons of rock from the ground, essentially re-writing the landscape, and doing so without so much as a bead of sweat on your face takes scads of power. Trent was fighting a battle he had no chance of winning.  
  
It hadn't stopped him before, but he hadn't the faintest idea what options he had left.  
  
--------  
  
Miles away, Orson paused as he felt the stirrings. For all that the rage empowering him was mindless, it made him a sensitive individual when he was not consumed by Hyuri. He could feel the very fabric of the ground around him being torn asunder. More importantly, in the direction that three elves he'd allowed himself to trust and befriend. Wordlessly, he turned his horse to ride for the disturbance.  
  
Shiris paused as she noticed the lack of a second horse. Wheeling, she stared in confusion at the rapidly shrinking image of Orson. "HEY! WHAT'S GOING ON?!" Sighing at his carelessness, she turned to follow. "WAIT FOR ME!"  
  
--------  
  
Wagnard sighed as his opponent still refused to budge. "I grow weary of this. Gesturing carelessly with his left hand, he summoned crimson bolts of lightning from the ground, erupting around Trent like some kind of grotesque parody of growth.  
  
Silent by nature, he still had his limits. The sheer, raw pain he felt under the assault was too much...more than he could bear. A scream ripped out of his throat, and he howled til his throat went raw.  
  
Deedlit and Pirotess stared in horror as Wagnard began floating towards them, a crackling orb orb of light in his hand. A larger orb exploded from the ground, a cage that not even Karla could have sundered, yet one that would cause no harm.  
  
Trent winced, gritting his teeth as the three prepared to teleport away. "You...can't...have them. Deed...'Tess..."  
  
The high elf bowed her head to him in her helplessness. Wagnard wasn't bothering with a death blow, but he couldn't possibly survive this kind of assault without medical attention. The only hope she had left was that he might survive. Wordlessly chanting, her words only in her mind, she began a summoning, forging the light for miles around into her spell.  
  
Orson and Shiris stared in absolute wonder at the beacon blazing atop the now-telescoping pillar of rock. The lightning had died atop it, leaving Trent collapsed and helpless at its summit. As he stared, he could feel something primal in him stir, but it was too late. His body was too far gone to fight now. All that was left was death or survival, one or the other.  
  
He doubted survival.  
  
--------  
  
He didn't fully realize it until a few days later, but he apparently came to about a day and a half later. His eyes refocused blearily, his first sight a face that was more than familiar. "Deed..."  
  
Leylia smiled in relief, not minding the slight hallucination. "It's alright, you've finally come to."  
  
Trent groaned quietly, his head pounding. What's going on...what happened... He jerked out of bed as he recalled the circumstances leading up to his infirmity. "Gaahh!" Not painlessly, by the way. "Deed...what happened to Deed and Pirotess?"  
  
The stony, uncomfortable silence was answer enough. Slayn stepped forward, a kind word at his lips. "Trent...calm down. You need to recov..."  
  
Assassin training teaches a person how to ignore pain, to realign their nervous system to maximize their recovery times and resistances. As such, even after his severe beating, Trent was certainly strong enough to yank one scrawny mage off his feet by the lapels of his robe. "Where. Are. Deed. And. Pirotess. Answer. Now."  
  
Slayn swallowed as Trent released him. "They were taken. By Wagnard, high priest of Falaris."  
  
Trent stared at him moodily for a moment, then shrugged it off. Standing, he gasped as his legs started to give out under him. Etoh and Leylia sprang forward to support him. "Trent! Don't strain yourself!"  
  
"They're going to die. Wagnard needs a sacrifice, and they're it. Don't you DARE tell me not to strain myself."  
  
Slayn glared at him. "Don't you think that those two would have wanted you to survive that encounter?"  
  
"I'll deal with that later," Trent said, struggling into his shirt. "Didn't anyone ever tell you that it's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission?"  
  
Leylia glared at him, a bit more effectively than Slayd could. "Do you have the faintest idea how much energy they must have poured into gathering all the light elementals to your father's sword?"  
  
Trent paused as he slipped on bracers, noticing for the first time the odd shimmer that seemed to be clinging to the elvish steel blade. "So what, you want me to just wait around?" He turned to them, his eyes starting to glaze over, like black ice over a pond. "Do you have the faintest idea what's going to happen to them, what it will feel like to have their souls ripped asunder to fuel the gates to Kardis?"  
  
Slayn sighed. "Trent, even if you wanted to go, you can't possibly succeed. You tried to fight him, didn't you. What makes you think that you stand a chance against him as you are? You won't win, you'll just hurt them more by forcing them to watch you die pointlessly..."  
  
Orson gaped in absolute shock. Considering his normal state of emotional deadness, this is saying something. He was far from the only one; Slayn had apparently pushed him a few steps too far. Almost as though it were blood seeping from under his fingernails, pure, Dark energy was flowing around Trent in a strange, almost bramble-like sheathe.  
  
It was the first time he'd seen someone else approach berkserk, and more to the point the only time one had remained calm in the process. It was as though he were warning them silently. He would not hesitate to destroy anything that got in his path to them.  
  
"Those letters you were to take to Moss..." Orson began.  
  
Hopes began to rise somewhat. Orson was the only one crazy enough to bring up a prior engagement, but it might just snap him out of his own psychosis.  
  
"...Shiris and I will take them for you."  
  
Hopes nose-dived.  
  
Trent turned to the berserker, staring at him for a few moments. Orson stared back unflinchingly into the assassin's eyes. Without so much as a single word, the two had come to an understanding. The aura faded away from Trent's body as he smiled gently. "Thank you."  
  
Shiris shook her head at him, but she'd suspected that he'd do SOMETHING like this. "Right! Don't you worry for even a second. We're going to take care of this ourselves."  
  
Etoh gave him an odd look, then sighed. Kashue had arrived before them in Valis, and appraised Fiana of the situation. Her reaction had been two- fold. She'd agreed to muster what forces she could to send along with him, then had chosen something that no-one had seen coming.  
  
"Trent...Fiana asked me to give this to you. She wants you to keep it from now on."  
  
Oddly enough, it was Trent's jaw that dropped the farthest (somewhere in the neighborhood of his solar plexus) at the sight of Spiritus Falis, the Breath of Falis in his hands. "I...I have no business wielding that weapon Etoh. I'm not just a dark elf, I'm an assassin. That sword is a holy weapon of light, and I am most decidedly aligned with darkness."  
  
Etoh shrugged. "You need something that you can use against Wagnard and the Scepter. This is meant for you, for the protection of all Lodoss."  
  
Trent was forced to grin at that. Trust Etoh to make this into some great holy quest. Still... Trent stared at the gold and steel great sword in his hands. He needed it; Etoh had been quite right about that. There was one small problem with him using a sword that had been touched by the direct opposite of all darkness. "Would...would you leave me alone for a few minutes? There's something I need to do." At their worried looks, he added irritably, "I won't leave without telling you first, alright? This is something that I have to decide on my own."  
  
As the two left, he unsheathed the glowing, light-shedding blade of watered steel. Switching it to a reverse grip, he wedged the tip inbetween some of the stones of the floor. Kneeling before it, he breathed deeply, trying to clear his mind and properly arrange his words. "Falaris, great lord of night, he who crosses the heavens with stars and moons in his shroud, hear my voice. One who serves and obeys you asks for your blessings. Those who once fought beside you stir, and now I seek to face them. My own power lacks to defeat them, so I must ask of you. I do not presume to ask you to lend me that power which is yours, but only that you not oppose my use of what powers are available to me."  
  
Normally Trent didn't pray, and when he did it was normally just a brief, 'thank you' to his god when things didn't go completely against him. As such, he was normally a lot more sedate and a lot less flowery. Stil, he figured that he'd get SOME kind of answer.  
  
A beam of starry-darkness spearing in through the window and forming into the image of a slender, cloaked, seven-foot tall man formed from a pure, otherwise featureless night sky was NOT what he expected.  
  
"F...F...Falaris?!" he squeaked in shock. At most, he'd expected a raven or an owl (birds sacred to Falaris) to come and land on the sword's hilt, signifying acceptance. Being confronted by a god a few dozen orders of magnitude stronger than anything he was capable of imagining was something else entirely.  
  
The god lacked facial features save his eyes and the impression of long black hair. Still, his current expression inexplicably made you think that he was smiling mischievously. It is for good reason that Night and Darkness are considered the resting place of all secrets. "So, you called for a favor or permission, if I heard right. Care for a bit more detailed and less flowery explanation?"  
  
Trent sweat-dropped at his patron god. He'd kind of expected him to be a bit more regal and thundering, not so...companionable. Still, the worst that would happen would be death, and if that were the case, fear wouldn't help any. So he could probably speak honestly without any real cause for concern.  
  
Now if only his knees and whimpering bladder would believe that.  
  
"Um, it's kind of like this. Two people I care about have been abducted by a raving lunatic who's been empowered by the goddess of insanity and destruction. I fought him once and got my ass kicked. Now, if I want to stand a chance against him, I need to use something a bit more potent than normal steel. I've been offered a VERY powerful weapon; problem is, it's the sword Spiritus Falis, a weapon empowered by your sworn enemy. So, can I use it anyway?"  
  
Falaris's featureless face once again gave the impression of change, this time a raised eyebrow. "If I don't let you?"  
  
Trent shrugged. By this time his bladder was starting to believe his head that he didn't have any real reason to worry, so it was a bit easier to talk to a god. "I'll probably try and use it anyway. So far it hasn't bit."  
  
"And if I chose to be offended and incinerate you?"  
  
"Then I'm royally screwed."  
  
Falaris turned to stare out the window for a long time. "What do you think about darkness? Philosophically, I mean."  
  
Trent paused, trying to collect his thoughts as the conversation made a ninety degree turn. "Um...I was taught that darkness is the void of creation, the place from which everything springs. Kind of like how an ocean is needed for an island to exist."  
  
Falaris nodded. "Falis is not a god of Good, you know. Nor am I the god of Evil; Light and Darkness are forces of neutrality, elemental existences that serve as a balance and fabric to keep the other forces in line. We opposed each other eons ago, mainly because Falis was an insufferable, arrogant pain-in-the-ass, and because I was a stupid, vain-glorious, glory- mad idiot. Still, we respected each other a great deal for all that we tried very hard to kill the other; a bit like that odd relationship between you and Ashram."  
  
Trent nodded along absently. "...So can I use the sword?"  
  
Falaris laughed pleasantly at him. "My point is, I never particularly liked Kardis. I mean, come on. Imagine a normal woman, then give her lunacy. Then give her quite literally perpetual PMS. Now add in enough raw power to turn the sun inside out in a fit of pique; no-one liked her, particularly Narse, but just about everyone. The only reason she fought on my side was because I couldn't convince Marfa to fight with me, and so I was stuck with trying to maintain the balance." He turned around and began fading back into the darkness. "So to answer your question, go ahead. If you can, please don't finish her off. If you're forced to kill her...well, I'll understand."  
  
Trent continued staring at the place where his patron god had been for a good ten minutes, lost in thought (that and trying to handle an extra few seconds of healing; he hadn't been joking about getting his ass handed to him by Wagnard.) Once his langour finally wore off, he picked up the Holy Sword and sheathed it, wrapping it in the red cloak Fiana had given him a while back. Slinging it over his shoulder, he trotted down the stairs after the rest of his party.  
  
Now came the hard part.  
  
--------  
  
The landscape of Marmo was that of a hinterland, a bitter, barren crag of rock; a vicious beast that lunged its fang-rimmed max into a world of mutual hatred. Farther away, the lands turned green and lush and peaceful, but the coast reflected the island it ringed; storm-battered bare dark gray rock was the only featured, serge grass the only plant that could survive the harsh world.  
  
It suited Ashram quite well. Not for the first time, he felt a certain...satisfaction if nothing else for having the finest steed his island had ever raised. Even after his near-death, the horse had remained near enough, subsisting in the harsh desert with an intelligence that often seemed greater than that of the goblins he'd commanded.  
  
With his horse, it had taken little time or effort to make it across the entire continent to this southeastern coast of Lodoss, mere miles away from his home.  
  
Glaring across the storm-gray sea, he silently vowed to kill Wagnard. The priest had been useful at times, but he had over-stepped his bounds long ago. There would be reckoning.  
  
And alone or with company Wagnard would die. By his hand, or another's. 


	12. Fantasia, Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve The Dark Island  
  
(Something that authors of fanfiction have in common is a bit of laziness. It's obvious; who else would use someone else's characters and plot lines rather than develop their own? So, to set the scene I'm going to be sinfully lazy and re-insert a description of the Altar from the last chapter. Enjoy.)  
  
The altar of Kardis was not a pleasant place to be in, for all its austere beauty. The temple itself sat on the highest mountain of Marmo, perhaps a mile away from Castle Conquera. The building was in the same vague style as the Greeks and Romans of earth would build; a generally square building, ornately columned. For all that the dark goddess despised light with a passion that went beyond madness, the temple had been carved from the purest white marble, the altar within shale and slate instead. The altar floated atop a forty foot boulder over a yawning chasm stretching miles deep into the ground, to the very resting place of the mistress of destruction.  
  
(We now return you to slightly more original writing.)  
  
Wagnard howled in laughter as he stared at his prize. "It has come full circle. The power, the scepter, and finally the elves. There is nothing left to stop me from fulfilling my destiny and bringing forth the glorious one." He grinned at the two elves. "Cheer up; you give your lives for a Goddess!"  
  
He raised the scepter, intoning the necessary incantations. "Ancient power long since imprisoned, you who were eons-ago forged from chaos, let slip your power, so that we may go where fore-ordained..."  
  
The entire temple began rumbling ominously, as the floating stone began to sink, slowly downward.  
  
The priestesses of Kardis (there were never more than three or four at a time; they tended to murder each other) had chosen to dress both Deed and Pirotess in what they had counted as more appropriate garments for their sacrifices. Both wore tight black ankle-length dresses, the skirts slit up the side for theoretical freedom of movement. The bodices were high-necked and sleeve-less, looking vaguely chinese. Their hair had been pulled back by head-bands, maroon silk engraved with tablet weaving in golden thread. The priestesses had also decked them out in various anklets and bracelets of gold, with huge Egyptian-looking collars of gold and engraved gems.  
  
If it's the end of the world, go for broke.  
  
The two had long since been placed under hefty compulsions; they couldn't move or struggle under any circumstances. Still, they had just enough freedom to let tears flow down their now-pale cheeks. "Trent..."  
  
--------  
  
The dark elf in question gasped uncomfortably, panting as he stared upward at the temple of Falaris for the first time in his life. Uncharacteristically, he'd actually consented to wear armor, though not the half-plate of his holy knight's armor. His jacket had been laced with elven steel wire and ring mail; less than one third of the weight plate armor would have taken, with almost no loss of protection.  
  
It had taken him and the rest of his group hours to get this far, killing or incapacitiating everything in their path. Most had fallen under Trent's swords (he was saving the Holy Sword for when he went up against Wagnard himself or something similar), the remainder going down under Slayn's mage bolts.  
  
He tried not to think about the fact that he'd left a swath of literally hundreds of dead bodies behind him. It was easier than you'd think; they were all goblins and ogres. You know, creatures that would have hacked him and company to bits before gorging themselves on whatever was left over. Not something you feel too much grief for.  
  
"They're over there?"  
  
Leylia nodded. "The ritual will be taking place in the temple of Falaris; no where else could possibly be suitable. That's where we'll find Deedlit and Pirotess."  
  
Trent stared at the hundred or so misshapen creatures blocking him from the temple, and smiled. It had absolutely no good humor in it, more like the visage of a wolf opening its mouth in preparation for going after your jugular.  
  
Cry Havoc, and Let Slip the Dogs of War.  
  
--------  
  
Kashue stared moodily at the fog-shrouded water. He was on a small...well smaller than he would have liked rickety wooden boat with a few thousand soldiers, and he had to go and try to stop a man wielding more power than most gods from ressurecting a goddess who intended to destroy any and everything that ever existed.  
  
Sometimes, he reflected, Being a hero sucks.  
  
Shadam stared into the fog as the afore-mentioned island began to swim into sight. "And so it begins."  
  
Kashue shook his head. "Mere men and their cold steel are fighting this battle. And our opponent will quite literally be divine."  
  
"At least we're assured a worthy adversary."  
  
Kashue probably should have laughed, but given the grimness of the situation, he settled for a bitter grin. "I suppose that under the circumstances a bit of bravado would be a good thing." Silence reigned for a few more minutes, until they got close enough for details of the island to become apparent.  
  
Shadam frowned as Kashue's expression darkened. He REALLY didn't need a sorrowful, brooding hero at the moment. They had Trent for that. "My lord?"  
  
"Take a good, long look at that place Shadam. Even if we survive the battle, we'll never return there."  
  
"You mean that it will be no place worth returning to...my lord?"  
  
Kashue's hand shot to his broadsword, senses sharpened under the razor edge of a lifetime of battle sending the subtle hints of danger. Not quite enough for him to be aware of the source, but enough to know something was coming.  
  
Said thing proving to be a sea-dragon; one hundred fifty feet long and forty tons of berkser scales, flesh, and fangs.  
  
"Stand firm!" Kashue bellowed as his men began milling and shouting in terror. "Archers! Loose!"  
  
Sea Dragons aren't counted among true (read as land) dragons. Among other things, they lack scales; their skins are tough, slimy, and leathery; more like a huge eel than a snake. While nowhere near as tough as the iron-hard scales of a dragon, sea-dragon skin is still proof against a lot more than you'd think. That includes arrows.  
  
The flights of arrows only served to get the damn thing pissed at them, as evidenced by its crushing one of the fleet ships. The sailors manged to reach other boats, but that was no guarantee. As for the men who'd been wearing their armor...steel and iron don't float under normal circumstances.  
  
Kashue glared at the thing, sword in hand. He'd have to try and finish the thing off, and quickly...  
  
...Before it sprouted a dragon-rider's javelin through its brain pan.  
  
Jester shook his head, tsking at the mercenary king. "Not exactly polite of you, just running off like this. I thought we were allies in this endeavor."  
  
Kashue smiled in relief. His smile turned thoughtful as he noticed the two who'd killed the sea dragon. "I thought you two were bowing out of this fight?"  
  
Shiris shrugged helplessly. "I just can't stand the thought of you guys fighting without me."  
  
Orson chose less flippant remarks (as if he could be funny. "If Kardis is reborn, the Hyuri in me might take control."  
  
Kashue laughed openly at that. "So, not even berserkers will allow the rebirth of the Destroyer?"  
  
Orson's answer was short and to the point. "Hyuri won't protect Shiris."  
  
--------  
  
The wind whipped ebony hair around Ashram's face as he surveyed the creatures that had chosen to oppose him. He was unaware of it to a degree, but he'd unconsciously entered a Pose. Come on, how much cooler can you get? A six foot six bishonen in glossy black anatomically correct (no, not THERE) armor, a scarlet-lined black cape whipping around him in storm winds, his black hair tossed around a pale face without obscuring it for a moment, the blazing sword Soul Crusher in his hands.  
  
Yeah, good luck topping that.  
  
The various goblins and ogres of Marmo had been trained for eons that you bowed only to one who was proven stronger than you. Ashram would be no different; he would be respected and obeyed only when he proved that he was their better.  
  
He allowed the energies of a currently enraged demon to slip free of the sword as he was charged. Whipping his blade upward, he unleashed a pulse of energy, devestating any and every thing withina hundred yards. Flesh and bone was reduced beyond ash in the maelstrom of unholy power he summoned; nothing survived his rage.  
  
Ignoring the carnage he'd unleashed, the Black Knight stared to the south. Towards Castle Conquera and the Temple of Falaris. He had business to attend to soon enough.  
  
--------  
  
The altar continued its descent down the rock tunnels. Over time, the simple stone rough-hewn by wind and water gave way to subterranean ruins stretching past even the time of Kastuul. Resembling to a degree the pueblos of the southwestern United States (if anyone in Lodoss had ever heard of the United States), the ancestors of what would become goblins had carved them before the tainted blood of Kardis had twisted them around. Now, after cataclysm on the heals of cataclysm, the ruins were nothing but mausoleums; hollow, barren monuments to the dead.  
  
Some less dead than others.  
  
The perpetual wraiths of Marmo stirred as they sensed still-live creatures traversing their realms for the first time in over a millenium. Little more than shells of what had once been living breathing flesh and blood, they were not true ghosts. They had hunger and anger, but no souls; just a powerful memory of something lost.  
  
What little mental faculties they had knew better than to trouble the dark priest; they could sense the forbidden energies around him. The elves were under no such guard.  
  
They couldn't feed on them per se, but they COULD sate their hunger to do harm on the pair. The compulsions on the elves was too great for them to even cry out in pain; they were limited to whimpers and grunts as the ghostly creatures began to phase through the two bodies.  
  
Wagnard frowned, raising the scepter. It would never do to have his sacrificial lams harmed; he needed all their strength if he was going to kill them first. Bringing the butt of the staff down against the altar with a single rap, he unleashed its power against them. Those closest were ripped to ethereal shreds; those farther off were meerly battered by the astral and magical forces. Regardless, a lesson had been forced down their throats...leave the elves or pay.  
  
Sighing in the minute relief brought by the cessation, the two elves lapsed into sub-consciosness.  
  
Floating ever lower, they passed the great black dragon Narse, lord of Marmo and guardian of Kardis's body. The perpetually snarling grin of his jawbones finally reached his eyes as Wagnard went past. He didn't like the goddess; he'd been offended by her very presence. Still, her ressurection meant a renewal of the great war of now-dormant gods, one that Falaris could win this round.  
  
It would be glorious.  
  
In the farthest northwest corner of Lodoss, a second beast stirred. Raising his golden, whiskered head, Mycen gazed across the valley, across his city of Dragon's Breath. One of the five survivor dragons, he had chosen to use his hoard and powers to form Myce, the only kingdom to boast dragon knights. He'd fought alongside Falis, defending Lodoss from darkness and destruction. Now, a new battle was raging, and old roles must be slipped into.  
  
Spreading his bird-like pinions, he flexed muscles that he'd refused to let weaken in his dormancy. With a single mighty heave, he launched himself out of his cavern, his heading due southeast.  
  
He had old battles to fight, old enemies to kill.  
  
--------  
  
Wort's eyes snapped open in shock. Mycen was stirring, headed for Marmo. Narse would never accept his presence without a fight. He openly shuddered at the thought of what the two dragons could do to a land they considered a battleground.  
  
Kardis was stirring.  
  
Every force in all of Lodoss was mustering to turn the dark island into a battleground of truly epic proportions.  
  
"Damn you Karla...what are your scales of history? What purpose will your battles serve?"  
  
The archmage, sage of Moss, began glowing in a fitful aura of golden sparks as he readied the powers that decades of study had honed. He would be of less than no use in the battle against Kardis; he would be too easily countered. He was predictable, it was that simple.  
  
That didn't mean he would let it be. He had a few last questions to ask.  
  
--------  
  
Panting slightly, Trent continued his charge up the marble steps of the temple of Falaris. Two new goblins fell in large meat chunks under his katana, but time was starting to tell. He'd been at this for hours, at least the trying to get into the temple. He resolutely tried to ignore the fact that around two hundred various corpses were littering the ground behind him; most falling to watered elven steel, the rest to greenish mage bolts.  
  
It was easier than you'd think. After all, it's pretty hard to feel sorry for a bunch of creatures that would have dragged you to a campfire, skinned you alive, and finished off by roasting you in such a state as to ensure that you'd continue screaming the whole time.  
  
No, very not-nice people.  
  
Still, fighting off that kind of a group was exhausting. Using his sword as a cane, Trent found the time to rest long enough to catch his breath.  
  
Unfortunately, that was when an ogre chose to appear to try and hack him into little chunks.  
  
Before Trent could react, a mage-bolt rammed into the creature's side, blasting it off the steps. The dark elf turned gratefully towards a still- posed Slayn. He probably could have blocked the stroke, but in his current state it would have sent him tumbling down a few hundred VERY hard rock steps. "We're almost there."  
  
The inside proved to be a bit of a let down; without the floating altar, there was almost nothing but a bunch of well-carved if austere columns surrounding a hole in the ground.  
  
Leylia stared in wonder. "Kardis ressurected from within this temple...as though she were waiting for her rebirth in the womb of Falaris."  
  
"Gods don't have wombs, goddesses do," Trent remarked absently, still in less than ideal shape. "Shall I assume that Wagnard is somewhere down this hole?"  
  
Slayn nodded. "Most likely." He would have liked to continue his explanation, but was cut off as the ground began rumbling under his feet, cracking to belch out beams of crimson light.  
  
Outside, Kashue stared grimly at the slaughtered remnants of the battlefield. "They weren't playing around, were they?"  
  
Orson looked to the temple as the earthquake reached them. "He's coming."  
  
A huge rift began to open behind the temple; four hundred feet long, easily seventy feet wide.  
  
Then Something came out of it that made a gaping hole in the earth forming in mere seconds seem tame.  
  
Jester gaped at the sight.  
  
Black, leathery hide?  
  
Check.  
  
Jagged white fangs under spiky jaws?  
  
Check.  
  
Red membranes covering black, bat-like wings?  
  
Check.  
  
Looked really, really, REALLY pissed off?  
  
Check.  
  
Approximately four hundred feet long, a few dozen tons in weight, and breathing violet fire?  
  
Check.  
  
Narse had appeared.  
  
"GET BACK!!! DON'T TRY TO ATTACK! NARSE IS FAR TOO STRONG TO OPPOSE!"  
  
Orson watched absently as Narse continued to roar, his wings stretched protectively over the temple. "He doesn't seem to be terribly active. More as though he were trying to keep us away."  
  
Shadam winced. "Meaning that we can't get anywhere near the altar."  
  
Orson nodded. "That, and our only hope to stop them now will be Trent and the others."  
  
--------  
  
It took long enough, but the altar finally reached the bottom of the vast chasm; yet another, bigger floating rock. Said big, floating rock was almost featureless, if one ignored the six pillars surrounding what could be considered the original altar. Atop each pillar, one of the red-robed and virtually identical priests of Falaris materialized. Why will eventually become apparent.  
  
Wagnard's skeletal grin continued as he surveyed the two still-almost- comatose dark elf women. "Soon...soon your lives will flow to Kardis, opening those ancient seals that keep her bound. And when the darkness of her destruction is loosed across this world, he who holds the scepter of domination shall not die." Cue the maniacal scream of laughter. "With this scepter, i will becom a god!"  
  
Raising the scepter, he began the ritual in a decidedly calmer state of mind. "Ancient power long since imprisoned, you who were eons-ago forged from chaos, let slip your power..."  
  
A flare of crimson electricity burst across the larger, secondary altar; a ring of lightning surging inward, from the edges to the central altar. As the energy continued, a stream of glowing motes of red light began to rise from the first of the pillars, soundlessly devouring one of the six priests. With his death, the first of the six seals opened.  
  
Pirotess and Deed gasped almost inaudibly in pain as the energies stole their own life-forces to feed the gates. Tears began to flow from their eyes; the compulsions left them that little freedom. They were going to die to destroy the world, and their only real hope of rescue was a man they prayed would not come within miles of them. "Trent..."  
  
--------  
  
Trent growled in irritation as they entered a walk-way of sorts. "How much further will this blasted place go? How much more time could it possibly take to reach the altar?"  
  
Slayn sighed. "I haven't the slightest idea. The last people to come out of Marmo were the six heroes over thirty years ago, and they didn't devote very much time or effort towards the topography and cartography."  
  
The dark elf shook his head, looking around. "It's rather disturbing for Her to be reborn in a temple devoted to Falaris. Destruction doesn't spring from night like everyone seems so convinced."  
  
Leylia raised a concerned eye at him. He hadn't mentioned why he'd chosen to accept the sword when they'd first set out, but this wasn't the first time he'd mentioned something of this nature. She really wished that he'd explain why he was having all these...insights. "We should be getting closer. It's unlikely that Kardis would have fallen all that much further."  
  
Etoh winced as a pungent new odor arose. "What's that?"  
  
Trent glanced ahead, where some kind of acidic goo was dripping down onto the floor. "I'd guess it's whatever comes after that."  
  
They assumed ready stances (one or both hands towards the now increasing noise of something shambling closer, a shoulder or the second hand trying to cover a nose) as the creature came into view. It resembled a giant amoeba of some kind; twenty feet tall, forty five feet long, slimy, green, and slug-like, with psuedo-pods/tentacles.  
  
Not a pretty sight, but as this fic is only PG-13, don't start worrying all that much.  
  
A darting tentacle was sliced in half as Trent's katana bisected the path, only to result in a new patch of stink/burning acid.  
  
"Don't use your sword again," Slayn cautioned. "It's slime is its primary weapon."  
  
"Great. Terrific. Peachy. So does that mean you're the only one who can deal with it?"  
  
In the middle of this conversation, an over-looked psuedo-pod/tentacle had snaked around behind them, and of course, it went for Leylia; the attractive female one.  
  
Slayn felt an odd snap inside of him as he saw his objet d'affectionne dangling from what was close enough to a monster's maw. He shot forward, his staff raised. "Source of all power, you who dwell within and without, lend me your force!"  
  
A six-foot orb of green energy lanced out, surrounding Leylia harmlessly while simultaneously disintegrating a good fifty pounds of slime creature's flesh.  
  
Slayn managed to catch the priestess as the creature screeched in pain. "Trent! Go on ahead, we'll stay and deal with this!"  
  
Said dark elf bit his lip in concern, but waved it off; particularly after the two started sharing lovey-dovey glances. (I could never understand why near-death experiences are considered romantic in anime.) "Good luck you two..."  
  
As the elf and the priest ran off, Slayn raised his staff. "Source of all power, you who dwell within and without...throw off these false garments, and protect our movements through..."  
  
Psuedopods were shredded against the conjured wall of mage-force. It would prove to be a gory, time-consuming, and ultimately undescribed battle.  
  
Even if it was sufficiently cool.  
  
--------  
  
One of the less fortunate of Jester's dragon knights managed to get slightly too close to what Narse considered his immediate territory. A quick wash of violet flames and he ceased to exist in anything other than ashes.  
  
Shiris gaped at the demonic visage. "Geez, what's that things problem?!"  
  
Kashue grimaced as the dragon knights began jerking their mounts around in shock at their brethren's death. "That thing's not about to let a single person get anywhere near the temple."  
  
Orson began stalking forward, his sword unsheathed. The way he figured it, he owed Trent a small debt. The warrior was the only man he'd ever met that could control a near-berserker fury. He was the only person that really knew what Hyuri could possibly be like.  
  
The result of these conclusions being a near-suicide. "It's in the way."  
  
Shiris gaped in horror at her companion. Okay, he was an excellent swordsman under any circumstances. Granted, he was damn near unstoppable once his Berkserker state kicked in. That didn't mean he'd be a whole lot of good against an eighty ton lump of claws, fangs, scales, and infernal breath. "ORSON, GET BACK HERE!!! IT'S IMPOSSIBLE!!!"  
  
Quite possibly true. He probably would have gone through with it anyway, save a very timely arrival.  
  
Check that, a very timely and down right collosal arrival.  
  
In close-faced helmets, it is very hard to nearly dislocate your jaw from gaping. Somehow, Jester was doing it anyway. First that mess with Shooting Star, now Narse had arrived and now this. "MYCEN?!"  
  
He was quite glorious to behold, as terrible in his own way as Narse. He was roughly the same size in body, head and neck, but his tail was a fair bit shorter...mostly because it was a feathered affair rather than lizard- like. Unlike any other dragon on all of Lodoss, his wings were feathered as well, gleaming against his golden hide.  
  
The golden dragon turned to the prince of his nation, roaring in an ancient tongue that only the royal family of Moss and another ancient dragon could understand.  
  
The wyvern-riding monarch nodded, hope touching him once again. "I understand!" Swooping down, he brought his wyvern to a landing before Kashue and Orson. "We're free to continue our battle! Mycen will deal with Narse!"  
  
The demonic black dragon grinned as he sighted the golden dragon in the skies. Mycen had been his opponent in the long-ago war of the gods; it would be good to face his truest rival once more. Spreading his wings wider, the black one leapt powerfully upward towards a bitter foe.  
  
Let the fires of the dragon's maw scorch heaven, hell, and earth.  
  
--------  
  
Miles away, in what had been the citadel of a Marmo noble, Karla stared into the flares of magical flames that erupted in the clouds. For the first time in hundreds of years, events transpired that he had absolutely no control over. It was not a comforting revelation that he was not the ultimate force in Lodoss.  
  
"Do you really intend to allow Kardis to be ressurected?"  
  
Karla turned calmly to regard Wort's glowing astral figure. "I will wait and do what I see fit."  
  
Wort's brows twitched at the comment. "You face gods now Karla. Have you so lost touch with the world around you that you think yourself Their equals?"  
  
Karla turned back to the battlefields in the distance, for once devoid of his ever-present, mysterious smile. It didn't suit Woodchuck's uglier face, anyway. "For seven hundred years I have struggled to preserve Lodoss. I have no intention of allowing nearly a millenium go to waste." He drew his cloak around tighter. "For now, I will have some faith in the black knight's will to survive and dominate. I will have faith in the elf's power to endure anything he chooses."  
  
Wort had no answer to that. Like Karla, he felt his own impotence against such forces, and felt very small. All that was left for him was to watch and pray.  
  
--------  
  
Wagnard sighed blissfully as the fourth of the six priests melted into motes of scarlet light. Their deaths and those of the two elves would fuel the rising power of Kardis. Truly a worthy death. He actually felt a slight bit of envy for them, going on to such glory. The demented priest could easily picture scores of others eager for the same honor.  
  
That they would be choosing this sacrifice over death by torture, be strung out on so many drugs that their names would escape them, or be under too many magical compulsions to piss without leave was lost on him. Still, it wasn't so bad a way to go. (Author's note: In case you haven't figured it out yet, ressurecting the goddess of insanity DOES have a few side-effects on the ressurector.)  
  
Which was what made the death rattle he was hearing from the sixth priest just so irritating. It wouldn't halt the ritual; all that was needed would be for the body to be evaporated within a few meters of the pillar for it to be sufficient fuel. No, what irked him was that any person who was audacious and/or dangerous enough to actually try to interfere might actually cause some problems. "Who's there?" he barked, his eyes widening first in shock and then rage at the figure stepping out of the shadows. "YOU?!"  
  
Ashram allowed himself a small grin. "When did I ever let you do as you pleased?"  
  
Wagnard snarled at the figure who'd dared to try and stop him. "Who dragged you back from hell?" he demanded. As Ashram remained silent, he went with the most obvious (and surprisingly for a psychotic individual, a fairly accurate) choice. "I see...so, you've thrown your lot in with that witch, eh?"  
  
Ashram didn't bother to answer. If Karla chose to help him, he'd accept it. He wouldn't trust her, but he'd be willing to use her. Mutual use seemed reasonable for an ancient witch and a knight who wielded a demonically possessed sword. "The powers of the gods are beyond your ken, Wagnard. A man should know his limitations."  
  
The red-clad priest laughed. So, underestimating his resolve? The black knight and 'king' was in for a nasty shock. "Unfortunately for you, I'M not the one who has to worry about controlling it. KARDIS is!"  
  
--------  
  
As he paused once more in the next little stop of their sojourn towards near-suicide, Trent growled in irritation. It had taken them an hour since reaching the shrine to make it this far; he considered himself slightly lucky that the ceremony was one that apparently took forever. "How much farther is it this time?" he asked Etoh, managing to keep at least some of the irritation out of his voice.  
  
"Not much further at all," Etoh answered surprisingly. "We're close enough that I can actually FEEL Her dark energies. It's only a matter of time now."  
  
Trent gave the priest a surprised glance, though pleasantly so for once. He can actually feel what we're up against, and he's coming anyway? Seems the boy's done some growing up since we last fought. I'll have to remember to start cutting him some more slack.  
  
This of course was when yet another obstacle chose to present itself; this time, another swarm of almost mindless wraiths. Oddly enough, they chose a more potent attack than normal for the two, coalescing into larger groups before beginnging their attack.  
  
Knowing that simple tempered steel was little good against the undead (as well as having an idea of how long before he'd be facing off against Wagnard), Trent sheathed his katana, finally bringing out the holy sword Spiritus Falis. Given that it was a holy weapon, he'd assume that it had at least some capabilities for turning the undead.  
  
Gritting his teeth, he braced himself against the streaming mass of ghosts as they attacked. It would have been a great deal easier if the blasted weapon would cooperate; it seemed to dislike its wielder as much as Trent disliked the blade. Why in the seven hells couldn't I have gotten a weapon that focused on darkness, or something cooperative? he griped, trying to drive off ghosts from sheer bloody-mindedness.  
  
In heaven or some reasonable analogue, Falaris grinned. Hmmm...I think I can arrange that.  
  
Preoccupied as he was dealing with a single wraith cluster, he didn't have a chance to parry or dodge the next two that attacked from back and sides, sending him almost-sprawling. He caught himself, but it was a near thing.  
  
Rather than press the attack, they chose to increase their own power to a degree, coalescing further beyond their normal mist-tailed forms of flying skulls. Specifically, into a fourteen foot tall spectral ogre sporting a demonically horned skull for its head. Energizing a group of the smaller wraiths still circling around it, the collected form attacked with its brethren rather than itself.  
  
Before Trent could attempt anything, Etoh had flung himself in the wraiths' path. Firming his grip on his blessed mace, he bellowed, "BY THE GLORY OF FALIS!"  
  
The first wave of the small-fry wraiths were shredded back into the lands of the dead. The larger collective was less visibly harmed, but it was impressive nonetheless.  
  
Wearing a fair approximation of Trent's feral smile, Etoh called back to the assassin, "Get going, I'll hold this thing off!"  
  
Trent gnawed his lip worriedly. Granted, Etoh was holding himself a lot better than before, but still... "You sure you can handle this?"  
  
Etoh nodded, sending a second prayer to scatter the wraiths. "Prayers will be more effective than swords here. Now get going! You have to save Deedlit and Pirotess!"  
  
Trent smiled at the priest. Will wonders never cease? "When this is all over, I'll meet you again."  
  
Etoh allowed some of the nervousness he'd been hiding (he'd been practicing) as Trent shot off, much faster than before. He still felt he could handle this thing, he just wished he was as sure as he'd pretended to be. Firming his mace once more, he faced off the beast as more wraiths erupted towards him. "BY THE AWESOME MIGHT OF FALIS!"  
  
--------  
  
Ashram hated Wagnard. He had for years; the simpering little man, so convinced in his own perfection had grated on his nerves to no end. Now the fool thought actually thought he would be allowed to arbitrarily destroy the world for his own twisted little jollies.  
  
Soul Crusher's first master, Beld, had disliked the priest to a degree, though for markedly different reasons. Wagnard had struck him as too cunning, too self-serving. Not that self-service was a flaw to the Marmo; far from it. Beld had merely considered the priest a danger. That, and he was more often than not annoying as hell.  
  
Soul Crusher itself, or more properly the demon king bound to it, currently hated Wagnard with a passion that would have staggered even the priest. The demon had never loved Kardis; what point was there in carving out an empire, just so it could be ruled over by a deity who'd destroy it in a whim or as a matter of policy? No, the rule of Marmo and Lodoss had been for his sake first, then for his master's after his death. The ressurection of Kardis was one thing the Great Sword had no intention of allowing.  
  
That didn't make things a whole lot easier though.  
  
Wagnard faded into sight before Ashram, a backdrop of darkness forming around his body. He openly sneered at the knight. "You don't really expect to be successful against me, do you? You couldn't possibly hope to even comprehend the powers at my fingertips, let alone oppose them."  
  
Ashram firmed his grip. Unlike the priest, he was taking this with every shred of seriousness and focus he could muster. "Neither Marmo nor Lodoss are your play things."  
  
Wagnard laughed. "Mere trifles, at best. After all, what use are mere chunks of cursed rock and dirt to one such as I?" Cue the skeletal grin. "What I desire is POWER! And when those of Kardis are mine, I will be the greatest, most powerful wizard to have ever been born!"  
  
His eyes glowed blood red as the dragon-headed staff he bore (he had to leave the scepter to the ritual) flared with power, sending a wave of magical energy to buffet the dark knight.  
  
Ashram set himself firmly in its path, Soul Crusher's demonic force easily deflecting the blast. A slightly more appreciative Wagnard frowned, drawing forth more of his now vastly enhanced magical energies.  
  
This time, the blast was far more powerful, forcing everything Ashram had into defense. He gritted his teeth, grunting in the exertion as energies fueled of chaos and madness slammed into him. He was now fighting a battle that he could quite easily lose.  
  
Once more, Cry Havoc. And Let Slip The Dogs Of War. 


	13. Fantasia, Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen Lodoss, the Burning Continent  
  
Wraiths, Trent reflected, are going to be joining the list of 'things I'll go out of my way to kill in the future.  
  
He'd been running himself ragged trying to make it to the altar in time to stop the ritual, when here came a brand-new kind of wraith; this one with blood-red underbellies and dragon-like jaws. Sheer force of will had gotten enough power out of the Holy Sword to slice them apart, but he was getting really tired of the damn thing being so...grudging with the power.  
  
As near as he could tell, the sword had a limited intelligence and consciousness. You'd think a holy weapon would be a bit more helpful about stopping the ressurection of a goddess of destruction. But noooo, it couldn't help a dark elf. No, in this case it would make sense.  
  
Sheathing the irritating (and in his opinion overly heavy) blade again, he continued his charge through the tunnels towards what should be the right direction.  
  
Eventually the featureless tunnels of shaped and molded rock gave way to some kind of cave, bright red light bursting explosively around the entrance. Slowing to a halt, Trent gaped at the maelstrom of energies. "What in the hell..."  
  
Further down, Ashram began to lose the battle against the priest; his sword was a source of stunning power, but it had its limits. Wagnard smiled, his eyes glittering as he watched his opponent. "Don't you understand yet that it's hopeless? Once the power of Kardis is mine, I will be as a God! No man will be capable of standing against me! No army can oppose me! NOTHING WILL HALT MY POWER!" he screamed, his power surging violently.  
  
With a yell of pain, the black knight flew backwards, leaving a fairly deep man-shaped impression in the wall. Despite the few tons of pressure, his sword was managing enough raw force to keep him alive; certainly alive enough to glare back at his current opponent.  
  
This proved unsuitable by Wagnard's opinions. "STILL YOU DEFY ME?!" he bellowed, his powers intensifying even further. He slammed Ashram violently into the walls with naked force of will, then abating just enough to let him fall at his feet.  
  
It would have been better to save his strength to fight, but Ashram couldn't resist the verbal jab. "You think...that Kardis has...chosen you?" He laughed bitterly, sardonically. "A goddess, true, but if you were her best choice, she's quite obviously insane..."  
  
Wagnard's eyes blazed scarlet at the foe before him. "YOU WOULD DARE TO BLASPHEME AGAINST HER?!?!" Reaching out his energies, he slammed Ashram completely through yet another wall of natural stone, yanking him back to his feet. Raising the knight upward, he allowed him to hover for a few seconds before hammering him into the ground at his feet.  
  
Taking advantage (sort of) of the respite, Ashram planted his sword in the ground as a support. The demon had been faithful; every erg of power it had was going towards lessening the titanic force of Wagnard's rage. In time, it would be enough for him to win, hopefully. Staring down his cackling opponent, Ashram grinned as a fresh surge of hungry power flared around him and his sword. He wasn't sure of the what or the why, but something was close; something that hated Wagnard with an intensity that burned like foxfire.  
  
Trent stared at his glittering, resonating blade. For the first time, sinc eit had entered his hands, its power was flowing unchecked, a softly glowing white corona of steel and gold. "What the..."  
  
--------  
  
The fight that would ensue between the two sword-wielding dark warriors and the priest of Kardis would be epic. Don't assume that it was the only one worth watching. Don't forget, the altar miles below the earth was only a tiny portion of the island being fought over; the entire nation of Marmo, the seas beyond it, and even the skies above were battlefields.  
  
When a dragon reaches a certain size, certain things lose importance. Namely, while a wyvern might struggle to maintain its speed and mobility in the face of a stronger foe, that ceases to be of any real importance when you're the size of a World War II attack submarine in midair. All that matters is who can keep to the sky longest, who can hold their own in the sky, and who has the greatest strength. Cunning maneuvers and tactics are no longer possible on such a scale.  
  
Tactics are still useful, as Narse was discovering. Taking away an opponent's knowledge of the battlefield is always a useful tool when it comes to gaining the upper-hand. Focusing, the black dragon sent a massive gout of violet flames towards its golden opponent. Mycen's thick, leathery hide was strong and tough enough that it did little save cause discomfort, but it wasn't intended to finish the job.  
  
It DID however serve to blind the more agile (slightly) long enough for Narse to close in and sink its teeth in its enemy's shoulder.  
  
The screech of pain and rage that erupted from the golden one's mouth was truly magnificent and awful, in the oldest connotation of the word. And along with the mere sound, a much older form of communication was loosed.  
  
Almost a thousand miles to the north, Bramd stirred from his hibernation in the icebergs of Tarba. He had served and protected Marfa for eons; he would joyously lay his life down if it could stop her hated opponent from returning. He was too far away to aid the fight now in person, but his power was something worth lending.  
  
It was noted earlier that he was the strongest, as the oldest of the five dragons. Now, huge amounts of that strength were being siphoned away to feed his younger, golden comrade.  
  
The glittering motes of light struck Mycen with a surge of fresh will, hope, courage, and most of all strength. Buffeting with both wings and claws, it forcibly threw Narse away from it, retaliating with a blast of fire far more intense than anything the black dragon would have intended. The thinner-skinned black dragon was harmed sorely by the attack, as opposed to the simple blinding of his own flames.  
  
Hundreds of miles northwest, in the deep seas off the coast of Kannon, Eibra stirred. Regal, with almost gown-like fins as opposed to wings, he belied the truth of himself in his evil. Cold, cruel, and calculating, he knew that the rebirth of Kardis was inevitable. Better to be on the winning side.  
  
Narse was already being fed by what limited power Kardis could spare from her stasis. It would take far less of his strength to balance the scales of what Bramd had done. His own greenish, hazy energies began to pour towards the stronger, black dragon.  
  
Narse's skeletal grin returned to his eyes as new strength began to ease the pain of his burns. The fight was far from over; it was only now starting to get interesting.  
  
Below, the humans and dragon-riders alike stared in wonder at the huge aerial ballet of combat. They weren't afforded the luxury much longer; death rattles of the perimeter guards tends to do that.  
  
Kashue and Shadam stared at the spear and arrow-riddled corpses of their own men as well as the goblins of Marmo. The only difference being that the goblins, ogres, and kobolds were beginning to stir, despite the four or five weapons left embedded in their cadavers. Eyes glowing crimson, they slowly began shambling inexorably towards the living.  
  
Shadam was shaken the worst by the sight, though not at having to face zombies. "Kardis?!"  
  
"No," Kashue stated, his sword clearing its sheath. "If she were really ressurected, she wouldn't bother with tricks like this. She's trying to buy time for the ceremony."  
  
Shadam stared at his monarch. "Then Trent and the others are still fighting to prevent her rebirth?"  
  
Kashue nodded. "Which means we can't accept Death's invitation right at this moment."  
  
Shadam grinned. It was little known, but there were ways to deal with these kinds of creatures. And if all he had to do was survive long enough for that ice-blooded elf to finish the job...who knows? Might be fun. "Let's go then."  
  
Shiris shook her head, smiling sardonically as the two charged, bellowing into the masses. "Yep, he deserves to be called the mercenary king alright." Getting an affirmative nod from Orson, she drew her rapier, and charged right after them, Orson following like a blood-maddened bear.  
  
As Kashue had said, Death would have to wait a bit longer.  
  
--------  
  
This is beginning to become dull, Wagnard sighed.  
  
At his feet, Ashram lay unmoving save for his ragged, labored breathing. The red priest grudgingly admitted a slight bit of respect; somehow, he'd managed to never let go of his sword the whole time. Still, it would be little use.  
  
Besides, it wasn't really all THAT boring. Far be it for Wagnard to ignore a bit of fun.  
  
"So, you finally understand now your own futility? You can't possibly win."  
  
"Lodoss...is not yours!" Ashram growled from the floor. Unfortunately, it was about all he COULD do.  
  
Wagnard laughed. This was actually getting to be even more fun than he'd thought! What had he been thinking, considering this dull? Charging up another blast, he sent Ashram flying towards the edge of the altar, into the the catacombs deeper within.  
  
He was actually somewhat thankful for the respite. Contrary to Wagnard's impression, Ashram was in better shape than he'd let on. Not much; he could still stand, but that was about it. Dragging himself back to his feet, he decided to at least go down fighting. He paused, frowning in puzzlement as Soul Crusher flared restlessly, hungrily. Looking around for the source of its unease, he felt his eyes widen.  
  
Trent stared at the source of the holy sword's restlessness. "Ashram?! He actually survived Shooting Star?"  
  
Wagnard gloated at the new target as he teleported before them. "The ghosts of Fahn and Beld still haunt this world." He grinned madly, the power once more taking hold. "I'll send you back to Hell where you belong!"  
  
Both warriors yelled in shock and pain as the energy blast pounded into them, knocking both flying.  
  
Trent recovered first; unlike Ashram, he was relatively fresh, having not been maimed repeatedly. He stared around in shock, trying to place his real objective. Spotting Deed and Pirotess on the altar, he immediately charged for it.  
  
"What, you think you can stop this already?" Wagnard asked, floating in front of him.  
  
Trent could feel the dark energies in him singing, chanting softly to be released. He REALLY wished he could afford to do that right now. "Let them go Wagnard."  
  
"TOO LATE, YOU FOOL! NOTHING CAN STOP THE GODDESS NOW!"  
  
Trent idly reflected that it had been overwhelmingly stupid to try and reason with Wagnard. At least he did in the few split seconds before the blast rammed into him and sent him sprawling next to Ashram.  
  
Wagnard shook his head. Fun was fun, but he really did need to get back to the ritual. "Time to send both sword-swingers to the land of the dead." He began focusing the scepter's power; he didn't want to have to do this twice, and apparently Soul Crusher was enough to stand against him. "I'll start with you, Ashram!"  
  
The black knight glared at the energy surge racing towards him. He was beaten, and yes it sucked, but glaring was about his only option now as he waited for the death blow.  
  
It never came.  
  
Wagnard's eyes raised in appraisal as his blast was sundered. "So, defending Ashram now are we, little elf?"  
  
Trent stared back at Wagnard from his defensive position. "I don't think Ashram would forgive me for just letting you win like this," he stated calmly, trying to dredge up as much power from the sword as possible.  
  
Wagnard grinned. "So be it child. DIE!"  
  
The sword apparently decided to continue to be contrary enough to hold back sufficient energies to keep Trent from total protection. Or in slightly less flowery terms, the blast was too strong and planted him against the walls of the caverns.  
  
Wagnard grinned. "Good-bye, little elf."  
  
"Farewell."  
  
Wagnard turned, confused. That couldn't possibly have been Ashram's voice.  
  
Though who else would have planted a sword's blade vertically through his entire head, neck, and half of his chest?  
  
Yeah, that hurts.  
  
Staggering backwards, Wagnard gasped as for the first time in years, he felt pain. Who cares? With Kardis, this is a trifle! Collecting himself, he felt enough strength return for some more patented evil-villain cackling. "This is nothing to me. Don't you understand yet, you fools?! Kardis has granted me eternal life!"  
  
Eternal life proved to be somewhat fleeting, as the spirits of energy that empowered the priest began to vamoose. Wagnard gasped in pain and shock as the power left, leaving him a very small man with a huge hole in his upper body. "Kardis...why? Where is your power?" In his hazy-minded stumbling, he fell towards the pillar that should have held the priest Ashram had killed at first. This proved a disastrous choice, as the altar didn't recognize rank or who held the scepter, all it recognized was a necessary priestly sacrifice.  
  
Feeling the power leave, Trent fell to the ground. Instinct took over, allowing him to make an easy enough landing on the ground. Unfortunately, the fifth priest had long since died on the altar. With Wagnard's death, the ritual had been completed.  
  
Kardis was beginning to stir.  
  
Stumbling over the now heaving stone ground, Trent began charging towards the altar. "DEED! TESS!"  
  
Pirotess swallowed painfully. He'd come. He'd actually come for them, and now he was going to die. "Trent...don't..."  
  
The dark elf either didn't hear or didn't care about her call, his charge to the altar unwavering. At least until Ashram turned to face him, Soul Crusher's true power rippling around him.  
  
The dark knight faced down the assassin, and raised his sword in clear challenge. Ashram did not care for Kardis, but he would not simply stand aside for him.  
  
The only way he could pass, was to defeat him.  
  
--------  
  
Back on the former citadel, Wort and Karla continued to observe the battle. Wort turned a reproachful gaze on her. "Seven hundred years now, Karla. You're just going to let it all go to waste?"  
  
"I gamble," said Karla simply. "On the fate of Lodoss, as I have for these past centuries."  
  
"Gamble?" Wort asked incredulously. "Karla, you are not the equal of gods. This is not something to be done on a whim."  
  
"You think this a whim, dear Wort?" he asked, deadly serious as opposed to his usual mockery. "This is the clearest path towards the survival of Lodoss left. I think you know that too."  
  
--------  
  
Parry and slash. Thrust, counter-thrust, and riposte.  
  
Those were the only language understood below Marmo in these final minutes.  
  
Trent glared balefully at Ashram across their crossed swords. "Why are you doing this Ashram? Why are you opposing me here?"  
  
Ashram didn't grin, or laugh, or even snort. He was in total, deadly earnest here. "For the fate of Lodoss. Light or dark, between us it will be decided."  
  
Trent leapt back as Ashram's shove proved the stronger of the two. "Light and Dark? In case it's escaped your notice, I'm just as darkness-bound as you."  
  
Words were abandoned as the two charged again, slash singing against slash, each blow and parry exploding with power.  
  
Trent's next blow nearly sent Ashram stumbling, providing the two with a bit of a breather. "Do you know WHY I'm fighting here, Ashram? Trust me, it's not for the sake of all Lodoss. I don't even know Lodoss. You want it? Take it. Just get," charge, "the hell," trio of counters, "out of," crossed swords in opposition, "MY WAY!"  
  
The final charge of Trent's offensive was enough to actually over-power Ashram. In every other charge it had been Trent's speed and skill versus Ashram's equal skill and greater strength. The dark rage he felt was fueling him strongly enough that he was now on a near-equal footing with the dark knight.  
  
As Ashram stumbled backwards, a hand managed to snake itself out of the hole where a pillar had stood.  
  
"Kardis HAS chosen me!"  
  
Even with the livid, still bleeding scar of Ashram's attack, Wagnard refused to die. Kardis's power had been to deeply woven into the fiber of his being; he had yet to expend everything the mad goddess had granted him. Glaring at the near-corpse, Ashram drew back to ram the weapon through the equally mad priest's chest.  
  
The problem with such a blow is that flesh and bone will close tightly around a strike such as that, sealing the weapon, wielder, and target in a single bond as strong as stone. Taking advantage of their now joined state, Wagnard's hands reached with supernatural strength for Ashram's throat.  
  
The black knight gasped in pain as the crushing strength behind Wagnard's grasp only seemed to grow. He would black out soon enough, but he had the chance for one, last, strike.  
  
Firming his hands around the hilt of Soul Crusher, he gathered his strength, both physical and spiritual for a single, mighty blow.  
  
Before it could strike, a flurry of scalpel-shaped shuriken hummed past his head, burying themselves in the priest's face and hands. Howling in pain, Wagnard was forced to release his target.  
  
Now freed of the burden of a would-be strangler, Ashram unleashed his focused strength and resolve, ramming the blade completely through Wagnard to the hilt, every shred of power he could coax from the demon within ripping into Wagnard's body and soul. Spent, Ashram collapsed in pain.  
  
Despite the great bodily and spiritual harm, Wagnard was still not quite dead. Turning longingly to his one-time prize, he raised a hand. "Kardis...if I can't control you, then no one will. Without the scepter, your power will run rampant, destroying everything. Destroy Kardis, DESTR..."  
  
The Holy Sword cleanly swept past his neck, taking the still insanely grinning head with it. "You need to shut up at SOME point," Trent growled.  
  
The dark elf turned to regard the sinking altar. The main problem with trying anything now would be power. He could attack, but without something a lot stronger than his balking, irritable holy sword he wouldn't stand a chance.  
  
Glancing around, his eyes fell on Soul Crusher in Ashram still unconscious grasp. Without so much as a second thought he picked up the sword, checking its heft. Then, something indefinable happened. The two swords had been at literal, figurative, and spiritual war with each other for decades. Wielding both at the same time suddenly brought an end to that, like a ceasefire between two nations conquered by an empire.  
  
The part that caused wonder was how little effort it now took to feel and control the vast amounts of power they held; unlike the above analogy, he'd required almost no effort whatsoever to tame them. The swords wanted to work together; he was unsure if it was their nature or merely their sudden overwhelming desire to destroy Kardis. In later days, he would believe more that each wanted to save the two elves on the altar as much as he; Falis's Breath for Deedlit, Soul Crusher for Pirotess.  
  
Opposing swords in hand, Trent jogged forward. Kardis, seeming to sense the opposing energy, lanced out jagged forks of her crimson lightning. The combined might of holy and demonic swords wove a circular shield around him that not even She could pierce. Standing before the pit and the altar, he tightened his grip, summoning every shred of energy within him. "Deed...Tess...I'm coming."  
  
Grinning ferally, he leapt into the air, falling towards the dark altar. For the first time, he roared as he fell to combat; the whisper quiet assassin gone for a moment.  
  
That final clash was a thing of awe. A last, desperate barrier had been erected between the dark elf and the altar; Kardis would not be fully reborn until the souls of the elves belonged within her. The twin swords unloosed their full energies in an unstoppable torrent of force; incandescent and violet, like tongues of chain lightning. The two energies surged wildly, focused under Trent's single-minded command; finish Her off.  
  
On the one side, a fallen, hibernating goddess of insanity and destruction. On the other a half-mad assassin dark elf wielding two weapons of godly power.  
  
In the end, destruction turned in on itself.  
  
Without the last surge of the barrier's power, the two swords ripped savagely into the ethereal barrens holding Kardis, laying waste to what lay beneath. The mere presence of the two swords's full energies rippled the air like black sand mirages, churning their wake into a pillar of pearlescent light.  
  
A light that stretched beyond worlds, spun filigreed from darkness.  
  
--------  
  
In the skies above, Narse faltered violently as he felt the death of his erstwhile goddess. Taking advantage of his opponent's momentary shock and the now permanent weakness, Mycen turned on him savagely, his bird-like jaws ripping the great vein and corded muscel where the shoulder joined the neck, his talons biting deep in stomach, chest, and thigh.  
  
Roaring in pain, Narse struggled weakly for freedom, but without the powers of Kardis he was no match for the raw force of Mycen and Bramd's combined power. He only became free when the golden dragon himself threw his opponent to the side, unleashing a final, massive blast of golden flames on his severely wounded opponent.  
  
What talons and fangs left unscathed, the flames completed.  
  
Mortally wounded and reeling, the black dragon of Marmo fell to the seas of Forceria, his only monument a single, last tongue of violet flames.  
  
On the ground below, charging ogres and goblins began to fall apart, as though clay and dirt gone too dry had suddenly crumbled.  
  
Wounded and bleeding, his once-pristine armor in rags, Kashue stared at the now dead enemies. "What in..."  
  
Shiris turned around, panting in shock. It had been a near thing, and it they'd narrowly survived. "Then...Trent succeeded?"  
  
Orson allowed himself a very small smile. "He won."  
  
Miles away, Karla smiled from the citadel as he felt the energies fade away beyond his own sensitivity. "It appears I gambled correctly." He turned to regard the still glowing sage of Moss. "Did you come all this way just to lecture me Wort?"  
  
He grinned. "Surely you wouldn't begrudge an old friend the right to see another friend's plan through to fruition?"  
  
Karla's smile returned to its old mocking expression. "No, I suppose not. The next time we meet, will it be under non-combative circumstances?"  
  
"You were once one of the six heroes. Can you never embrace that path again?"  
  
Karla shrugged, and faded away. His voice was the only thing to remain. "When the scales of history are unbalanced...I will reappear. I think you knew that would be the answer to begin with."  
  
Wort sighed, shaking his head as he faded back to his old tower. "Farewell...old friend."  
  
--------  
  
The intrepid group that had set out to finish Marmo had finally reached the foot of the temple of Falaris to seek out Trent.  
  
What they saw as they drew clear would later become the subject of paintings and odes (much to Trent's disgust and Deed's private amusement).  
  
Kashue stared openly at the conquering hero, for once that in name as well as fact. Shiris could only gape at him.  
  
Soul Crusher and Falis's Breath had been wrapped in the torn remnants of Ashram's cape, a single strap holding them across his back. Battered beyond a great deal of recognition, he stood there atop the ruins of the temple, the panorama of sky behind him a sullen, cloudy mass. Bruised, scraped, and bloodied, yet without a single spark of the cold fire in his midnight blue, star-flecked eyes exstinguished. His right arm supported Pirotess over his shoulder, his left arm holding Deedlit close enough against him to keep her from further injury.  
  
The survivors stared at him, and felt a great cheer erupt from ragged throats.  
  
--------  
  
Kashue stared at Trent, uncomprehending. "You're not going back to Valis?!"  
  
Trent winced as he eased off his old shirt to replace it with a whole, but otherwise identical one. "Calm down, Kashue. I'm going back to Valis, just not immediately. There are three things I need to take care of before I can go back."  
  
The mercenary king, clad in a spare set of armor (his old, faithful half plate was mangled beyond recognition), simply shook his head as Trent switched his mail-lined coat for the old one. "What could possibly be important enough to take your attention now? You're a bit of a war hero now."  
  
Trent nodded. "I know. Among other things, I'm hoping for a little bit of the furor to die down." He shrugged. "My main concern is something still in the castle that needs to be safe-guarded."  
  
Kashue shrugged. He'd learned recently that opposing the dark elf was a hopeless proposal; the blasted man did what he wanted, regardless of its sanity or popularity. "Will you need anything?" he asked instead, deciding that it would be better to try and help.  
  
Trent nodded. "Immediately, all I need is my horse and enough food for a few days." Fahn had given him the charcoal gray stallion, and he'd taken with it from the start; it was the smartest horse he'd ever met, never mind being quite fast and enduring. As he traveled light, he didn't really need strength. "I'd also like you to leave behind one boat; big enough to hold me and the horse, but small enough that I won't need any crew. Last of all..." he paused as he gazed with undisguised affection at Deedlit and Pirotess. "If they wake up before I return, tell them that I'll return to Valis in exactly one week. And...never mind."  
  
Kashue shrugged, fighting a grin. "Suit yourself." He turned to head back for his own men, then paused at the gangplank of his ship. "Trent...thank you."  
  
The dark elf grinned back as the mercenary king strode off. Not waiting for the fleet to sail off, he immediately turned back towards Castle Conquera.  
  
During the trip to Marmo, Trent had asked Slayn, Leylia, and Etoh to tell him about the scepter of domination. They hadn't told him a lot more than he'd already known; supposedly even gods had to bow to it, it had been guarded by Shooting Star, and at one point it had belonged to Falis himself. What they HAD told him of interest actually concerned other things.  
  
Apparently, the kingdom of Kastuul hadn't just entrusted the scepter to the strongest of the ancient dragons, but had given one item of great power to be guarded by each of the five over a thousand years ago. It was fairly common knowledge that Bramd held the Staff of Life, an item that could heal anyone of anything, provided they were still alive. Mycen had been given the Mirror of Truth; supposedly nothing could hide from it. The last two, Narse and Eibra, had been entrusted with the Soul Crystal Ball and the Ferronierre of Knowledge. Eibra's crystal ball could do what Bramd's staff couldn't; namely bring back the dead. As for the ferronierre, no one was completely sure what it did, save that it involved knowledge.  
  
Trent's point in all this had been simple. He didn't trust to just abandon these items; the abandoned scepter had nearly destroyed them all.  
  
Retrieving the scepter had been simple; he'd left it in the rubble just before he'd reached daylight again. Narse's ferronierre had taken longer; he'd had to hunt down the lair, and even then it had taken hours to find the jeweled necklace.  
  
He didn't dare put it on; Slayn had speculated that the knowledge it held could come at a Karla-esque cost, usurping the wearer's mind in exchange for the knowledge. He just slipped it into a leather pouch to drop into a volcano or something.  
  
That left two small side trips to very large problems.  
  
--------  
  
Eibra stared incredulously at this short dark elf who'd challenged him for the Soul Crystal Ball. "You must be joking or insane, insect," he rumbled, preparing a blast of electricity to reduce the little fool to ashes.  
  
Trent grinned.  
  
--------  
  
The crystal ball joined the necklace. One last side trip.  
  
--------  
  
Once again, Shooting Star was having a very bad day.  
  
It had all started with that damnable black knight. He hadn't been able to finish him before he had just sank out of sight, unconscious from all the sulfur fumes. Still, he'd been able to wound the ancient Demon Dragon severly enough to put him out of commission for likely years to come. seriously doubted this could get any worse.  
  
"HEY LUCY, I'M HOME!!! (1)  
  
Never say, 'it could be worse.' Don't even think it. Because in a literary piece, it always happens.  
  
--------  
  
A week had passed. In preparation for Trent's return, the city of Valis had spent nearly the entire time preparing the city for a celebration the likes of which it had never seen in its entire history.  
  
Peasants and craftsmen lined the streets, waiting for him to come riding home triumphantly. Nobles and foreign kings waited along the scarlet carpet of Fahn's throne, wher Fiana would present him with the armor of a Holy Knight, and swear him into their most elite warrior caste.  
  
They didn't really know him very well.  
  
Slayn smiled pleasantly across to Leylia. He had known from the first planning stages Trent wouldn't go through with it. So had Leylia and Etoh. They'd tried once or twice to convince the rest of Lodoss of that, but had given up in the end. Still, they kept up the charade. It promised to be something that Fiana would no doubt turn to their advantage; she was a born politician.  
  
"He'll look splendid in the armor of a holy knight," Leylia commented from beside the throne.  
  
Slayn grinned. He will, if they can ever get him in it. "Certainly my dear. Truly magnificent, poised to be the center of attention everywhere he goes."  
  
Yeah. Right.  
  
In their own private suite, Deedlit and Pirotess waited patiently. They'd been pronounced fully recovered two days ago, and had spent the past time preparing.  
  
A whisper of cloth from behind one of the canopy beds that had a slight amount of shadow was their only hint. It was all they needed.  
  
"Hello Trent."  
  
The dark elf smiled. "I have a long way to go, much to do. Will you be joining me?"  
  
The two stood, smiling lovingly at him.  
  
--------  
  
Slayn grinned at the sight of Trent, Deedlit, and Pirotess galloping away at top speeds down the streets of Valis. It hadn't been the plan, but it was somewhat stirring in its own way. "They'll come back some day."  
  
Leylia nodded, smiling. "Destiny made our paths cross for a reason. It will make them cross again."  
  
Trent smiled as he rode into the sunset, heading for Raiden. He'd known for years that sometimes life was good. He'd just discovered that with others, it could be magnificent.  
  
The assassin was finally waking up.  
  
--------  
  
Far away, an ancient power watched and smiled. The first step on his warrior's journey had been taken.  
  
The first step of many.  
  
The End.  
  
Author's Note: Ah yes, an end to the first tale of a strange (and around book four shape-shifting) hero. If you liked Trent and are hoping for continued writings, don't worry, there are more wildly improbable stories for this character rolling around my skull. If you didn't, then why the bleep did you read this story to the end? In any case, thank you for reading. I say this with the assumption that eventually, someone will actually find my page and I might actually get fans. One should never give up hope; he's the best writer of us all. 


End file.
